The Measure Of A Man
by Virtuella
Summary: Déoric has lost a leg and his best friend on the Pelennor. He is set to lose even more after his return home, but Éomer discovers the young man's unusual talent. A coming-of-age story. MEFA 2009 First Place
1. Prologue

_Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien._

_The characters first appear in The Unsung Sorrow and Tales of Promise. Thanks to Finlay and Epilachna for beta-reading._

* * *

Prologue 

The house was small, yet solid, built of wood with the carved horse heads at the gable like all the others, even the great hall of Meduseld. Not that this house was anywhere near the Golden Hall - its inhabitants were common folk of no special rank among their people. A simple house, then, shaded by a couple of gnarled oak trees. Outside the front door stood a bench and on the bench sat two figures.

"I saw their king once," said one of them. "He came to the Houses of Healing to tend to some who had suffered from the Black Breath, as they call it. Our Lady Éowyn was one, and the Steward of Gondor. That was where they met. The other was one of the Periain."

"The Halflings from the North?"

"Yes, but he wasn't one of the two who went into the Black Land. He was hurt on the Pelennor Fields, just like me. I talked with him a few times. He was well-spoken and I liked him very much. They seem a courteous people, but then everybody in that place was gentle and mannerly."

He, who had spoken these words, averted his face to hide his eyes, which were brimming with tears.

"They were so kind to me, Mama. The Houses of Healings are wonderful indeed. I would have surely died, had they not taken care of me..."

His voice trailed off. With both hands he grasped the crutches and tried to rise from the bench. On the second attempt, he succeeded and stood, a tall young man with long hair the colour of wheat. The twittering, which had filled the air until now, suddenly stopped, as a flock of starlings took fright and plunged down the hillside, where the last few houses of Edoras looked out over the plain. The gentle green of spring covered the land, a soft, rolling sea that stretched all the way to the distant mountains.

Dirlayn, his mother, remained seated and leaned back against the wall of her house. It had rained earlier in the afternoon, and now the air was very still and the smell of living things, growing things, rose from the meadows into the quiet city. The sky looked pale and dull, like thin milk in a dark bowl. She glanced at her son and guessed what he did not say: That he had wished to die in those first few days. That after the battle, death had seemed like a sweet, sweet reward for those luckier than himself, and life a burden he cared not for. He would never ride again. What was there left to live for?

"There was one in particular," he began again. "One woman whose kindness I cannot praise enough."

"Was she young?"

"Oh, no." A faint smile appeared on his face. "She was much the same age as you. In fact, she was like a mother to me, though she said she had no children of her own and indeed no living kin. Merilwen was her name. She would sit by my side sometimes, and when I cried, she would tell me stories of the White City and of her childhood in the hills. And she always knew what I needed most, be it water, food or rest. Had it not been for her compassion, I think despair might have overwhelmed me. I would have dearly liked to give her a token of my gratitude. It grieved me that I had nothing to give her but words when we parted."

"I am pleased with you, Déoric," said his mother, "that you thought of courtesy and gratitude even in your anguish. Your father would be glad to know that his son didn't disgrace himself in foreign lands. As for Merilwen, it is not too late to give her a gift. There are messengers travelling back and forth between the Mark and Gondor now, so I hear. I shall put my needle to work, for I owe her a debt of gratitude, too. My son came home."

The young man shuddered, as if the memory of his ordeal had suddenly seized him afresh. Dirlayn sighed, rose from her seat and put her hand on his arm.

"Come inside," she said. "It is getting cold."

oOoOo

In the days that followed, Déoric spent much time walking about Edoras on his crutches, as if to prove to everybody that he was indeed alive and wouldn't hide himself away. While the trees unfurled their leaves, he stopped in the streets to talk to neighbours and visited old friends. One house, however, he never went near and he would make strenuous detours to avoid it.

When he came home one afternoon, his mother was waiting for him. Spread out on the table was the cloth he had seen her working on for the last two weeks without ever paying much attention to it. It was dark green, of the coarse, warm fabric the Rohirrim wove. Around the edges a border of white flowers shone in crisp embroidery, and more flowers were dotted all over the cloth.

"It is finished," said Dirlayn.

He stepped closer and ran his hand over the cloth.

"Simbelmynë," he said. "The flower of the mounds. But I am alive, and thanks to her." There was a trace of question in his voice.

"Indeed," replied Dirlayn. "Do you not know, Déoric, that the flowers that grow on the graves of our forefathers are a sign not just of death, but also of life continuing? The mounds are green and studded with flowers, not brown and barren like those places where the men burn the carcasses of fallen orcs."

"That is true," replied the young man. He looked at the cloth again. "It is beautiful. I think Merilwen will like it very much. Thank you, Mama."

He kissed her on the cheek. She looked away.

"You are a good lad," she said quietly and folded up the cloth. "I know a man who is riding to Gondor next week and is willing to take it. Sit down and I shall bring your supper."

Déoric dropped into his chair and leaned his crutches against the side of the table.

"Fana has been asking for you again," she called from the kitchen. He made no reply. When she brought him bread and butter and cheese, he busied himself about the food and pretended he hadn't heard.


	2. The Kings of the Mark return

The Kings of the Mark return

The bright green of the new leaves faded into a darker hue as the spring was gently gliding into summer. April had sent many showers and May some, but in June the puddles dried up under a diligent sun and by the end of the month the footsteps of the people were followed by little clouds of dust in the lesser parts of the city that weren't paved with stones. Straggling soldiers were still returning to Edoras from far afield, some with trophies and proud tales to tell, others weary and wounded and unwilling to speak. One morning in July, when Déoric was slowly making his way up the flight of paved steps that led to the market, he heard his name called.

"Déoric! Déoric, my friend! How wonderful to see you!"

He turned, and there, leaping up the steps two at a time, was a young man with reddish braids and a deeply tanned face. When the man drew level with Déoric, he seized him in an embrace that nearly knocked them both off their feet. Then he held him at arm's length and beamed into the lean face with the sharp nose and the angular chin.

"I thought you were dead! I could find no trace of you after the battle. What happened?"

Déoric leaned heavily on his crutches and pressed his lips together. Then he sighed.

"Those Easterlings swing a savage axe, Niarl. I would have been dead, but I was lucky that some men took me to the city and into the Houses of Healing." He paused and shook his head, then shifted one crutch to the other hand, so he had an arm free for hugging his friend again.

"I thought _you_ were dead. What took you so long?"

"Oh, this and that. I never made it into the White City. Right after the battle, we were caught up in chasing some orcs down to the river with a group of soldiers from Gondor. We encamped near that ruined city of theirs. And then we set off for Mordor, and it was all to be very important and heroic, but I didn't actually get there and ended up helping to drive away the orcs from an island in the river. And then..." He broke off, when he saw Déoric swaying. "But that is not a tale to be told in the streets. Let us go to the tavern and have a mug of beer like we used to do."

Déoric's hand touched the pouch by his belt. Noticing his friend's embarrassed look, Niarl continued: "And I shall treat you, for I have just this morning received my pay from the treasury. Éomer King has not been miserly. Come! Let's celebrate my return."

When they were both seated at one of the long, bare, wooden tables of the Shield of Emnet, each with a pewter mug in front of him, Niarl related in full the tale of his adventures. At the retaking of Cair Andros he had been wounded and forced to spend a couple of weeks in the camp curing a nasty slash to the head and several broken ribs. By the time he had recovered, the company he had arrived with had moved on and he found himself joining a patrol that was on the way to Ithilien. There he had helped to rout the scattered remains of the armies of Harad and pursued them far into the South beyond the River Poros.

"Look at this," he said and pulled from his belt a long curved dagger. He handed it to Déoric, who took it gingerly. The blade was of bronze and curiously engraved with swirly patterns around the edges and the shape of a snake along the centre.

"A handsome weapon, isn't it?" continued Niarl. "The fellow who owned this regretted pulling it on me. I'd slaughtered plenty of orcs before, but he was the first man I killed. It wasn't pretty, believe me. Still, it was their own choice to follow the Dark Lord."

He put the dagger away and took a deep draught of his beer.

"It took me quite a while," he said, "coming back up the Harad Road. There were still skirmishes here and there. I kept to whoever was travelling north, and I was lucky at last to meet with Elfhelm's éored near the Emyn Arnen and join them for the rest of the way."

"Was Halol not with you then?" asked Déoric quietly.

Niarl lowered his head and looked at his hands.

"No," he said. "Him I _did_ find on the Pelennor. The orcs hadn't left much even for burying, but I knew his shield and his armour. I am sorry, Déoric."

For a while, neither of them said a word, and the voices and noises of the tavern drifted into their little corner of the room.

"Does his mother know?" said Déoric at length.

"Not yet, unless someone else has brought her the news. I mean to go and see her tonight. Will you come with me? It would be less daunting to me if you were there."

"I shall come." Déoric bit the knuckle of his second finger. At last Niarl looked up from his hands.

"I thank you, my friend. Let's drink to his memory."

They raised their drinks. "To Halol," they said and drained the tankards.

They sat in silence again, until Niarl waved to the inn keeper and ordered another round of beer. Over their second mug they began to speak again.

"You haven't told me your tale yet," said Niarl.

"There isn't much to tell," replied Déoric. "They patched me up as best they could in the Houses of Healing and sent me home on the first train of carts that went north. I've been here since April, doing nothing much but learning to walk with the crutches. The stump is still tender, but thankfully not infected. Mother was distraught at first, but she has calmed down now. She is still selling herbs in the market, but we never expected having to live on that in the long run. One of our chickens died, so there's only two left. We still have the cow. Mother milks her now, because I can't carry the pail up the hill."

"And how are things with you and Fana?"

With a flick of his hand, Déoric tossed one of his braids over his shoulder. He took a swig of beer.

"We don't see each other much anymore."

"Oh. I am sorry to hear that," said Niarl. "What happened?"

Déoric snorted. "Nothing. I'm just not the same man anymore."

"Indeed, you are not. Your beard is grown thicker."

At this, Déoric smashed down his tankard and the beer splashed onto the table.

"For goodness sake, Niarl, don't play the fool! You have eyes in your head. I am a cripple!"

"And Fana minds that?"

"I'm not going to wait to find out," shouted Déoric. "I am not going to be made the laughing stock of the town. Who wants a cripple? Halol has drawn the better lot!" He grabbed his crutches and hobbled out of the room. Niarl made no attempt to stop him.

oOoOo

It was Éowyn, Lady of Rohan, who first saw them coming. The high window of her bedchamber looked to the North, where the road emerged from behind the mountain slope. It was still morning and the sun had only just climbed high enough to rise over the ridge and stretch out its rays towards the city. Later in the day it would be fierce and even oppressive, but at this hour it was still pleasant, touching the summer landscape with a caress of warmth and light. The river, low at this time of year, curved to the East and rippled along under the willow trees to meet the distant Entwash. There between the lush meadows, following the course of the river on its eastern bank, the road wound among the last thin wisps of morning mist.

Éowyn shaded her brow with her hand and strained her eyes to make sure that the travellers she saw approaching were indeed the ones she was expecting. The foremost rider carried the green banner with the white horse and behind him came a cart, flanked by two riders on either side. Among the large group that followed she could discern only Gandalf, clad in white and riding the mighty steed Shadowfax, and some small riders on ponies, whom she guessed to be the Halflings. Many others rode there, some thirty or forty altogether, and she saw other banners she recognized: The silver swan on blue and the white tree on black.

She stepped back from the window. With short, quick movements she smoothed down her gown. Her maid had ordered her hair earlier, and she felt it neatly braided and bound with ribbons around her head. When she looked down she saw that the buckle on one of her shoes had become undone. She knelt to fix it and fumbled in her impatience. Her arms still troubled her at times, both the left, the shield arm that had been broken, and the right, which had held the sword that pierced the witch king. She paused and breathed deeply until the tingling in her fingers faded. Then she fastened the buckle, left her chamber and descended the stair.

The living quarters at Meduseld were situated on three floors by the entrance, so that those entering the great hall did so through a wide corridor some thirty feet long. It was into this corridor that the staircase opened, and when Éowyn emerged she was greeted by the guards and servants waiting for her there.

Éowyn turned to a tall, middle-aged woman in a brown dress and apron.

"Is all prepared, Brandwyn?"

The woman curtseyed and answered: "All is prepared as you ordered, Lady Éowyn. The main street has been adorned with banners and flowers all the way down to the gate. The oxen are roasting on the spit and we have nigh a hundred loaves in the ovens. The fruit pickers haven't come back from the orchards yet, but we expect them here any moment. I have had sleeping quarters prepared for the guests and the tables are set."

"You did well, Brandwyn," said Éowyn. She stepped out through the great doors and stood on the platform between the two stone-hewn seats that flanked the broad stair leading down to the city. More folk were assembled here. When they saw her coming out of the hall, they turned and looked at her expectantly. Éowyn raised her head and straightened her shoulders.

"Now let the heralds blow their fanfare," she said, "for the Kings of the Mark are coming home."

oOoOo

Edoras was indeed prepared for the return of the kings. Garlands of flowers hung from the eaves of the houses along the main street, green and white banners flapped gently in the breeze and the whole city was abuzz with excitement. Dirlayn and Déoric were among the last to arrive and in some places the street was already lined with people four and five rows deep. They found a space by a low wall overhung by an old plum tree, where the crowds were thinner. The street was narrow here and only one row of people stood on the far side, while on the near side folk were sitting on the wall. A chubby woman rose from her seat when she saw Dirlayn and Déoric approaching.

"Come here, Déoric, my lad, and sit down. I've been sitting here half an hour already and need to stretch my legs. You'll keep my seat nice and warm for me, won't you?"

Déoric blushed and hesitated, but then he thanked the woman, sat down on the wall and placed his crutches on the ground before him. People on either side moved up to make space for Dirlayn. The chubby woman crossed the street and stood among the other spectators. Moments later the sound of many hooves was heard approaching. Soon the procession came into sight. The foremost rider bore the green banner and when his trumpet rang out it was answered by a fanfare from high up in the city.

The people in the streets bowed their heads as the bier of Théoden King rolled past them. A small figure dressed in the garb of an esquire of the Mark sat on the cart. He looked around with keen eyes and "Déoric!" he suddenly cried out, "I cannot stop, but I shall see you later!"

"That was Meriadoc, the Perian I told you about," said Déoric to Dirlayn. Eyes turned to him for an instant, but there was no time for the people to wonder much how Déoric had made this stranger's acquaintance. For the cart was followed by many riders of fair appearance and foreign attire, the likes of which most people in Edoras had not seen in their lifetime. The young king of Rohan was greeted by a chorus of cheers.

"The white tree on black is the banner of Gondor," said Déoric to his mother. He had to shout to make himself heard above the many voices. "King Elessar is the tall, dark one beside Éomer King. They say he has the hands of a healer. And there next to Gandalf is Lord Faramir on the black stallion."

He felt a mixture of pride and embarrassment when the Steward of Gondor greeted him with a small nod. There, however, ended Déoric's knowledge of the guests, and he gazed like the others at the knights and their banners and the Halflings on their ponies and even more so on the elven folk with their shimmering gowns and ageless faces. It was as if tales and songs had suddenly come to life among them.

"An elf and a dwarf riding together on a horse of the Mark," said a man to Dirlayn's left. "What is the world coming to?"

"Better times, I hope," replied Dirlayn. "Consider that orcs on wargs might be prowling the city now, had it not been for the deeds of these people."

"Very well," said the man. "Though I dare say we have all done our bit, and your lad not the least. Yet we won't see him riding up the street with banners and fanfares."

"We won't see him riding at all anymore," whispered Dirlayn, "but I beg you not to say such things in his earshot."

The man raised his hands defensively and got up to leave. The procession had passed and the crowd was dispersing. Some returned to their daily business, others followed the guests up to the higher parts of the city. Déoric and Dirlayn remained where they sat and watched the people go by.

"Some illustrious folk you know these days, Déoric," came a voice from above their heads. Déoric did not look up. He felt the heat rising in his face.

"Aren't you too old for this kind of mischief, Fana?" called Dirlayn.

"Oh, you know how I like to climb," the voice replied, and an instant later a young woman dropped from the lowest branch onto the ground next to them. She had blonde hair like most of her people and her eyes under the sandy lashes were blue, but she was small and dainty and looked much younger than her eighteen years. Her little snub nose was covered in tiny freckles.

"I even used to climb that great willow tree down by the stream, before the storm blew it over. Déoric did, too, didn't you, Déoric?"

Déoric turned aside and bit his knuckle. He felt Dirlayn push her foot against his, but he remained silent and stared at the ground.

"Will you come and take our broth with us?" he heard his mother say.

"No, thank you, Dirlayn. I must go and help Mama with the little ones. They are wholly out of hand today with all this excitement. Will you be coming to the merrymaking later on, Déoric?"

"No, I have ... things to do," he said. He was aware how weak that sounded. Before she could begin to question him, he picked up his crutches and made for home.

oOoOo

Dirlayn and Déoric watched the funeral of Théoden King from the bench in front of their house. They saw the procession emerge from the gate, led again by the green banner of Rohan. The bier of the king was borne on the shoulders of his guards and many folk followed both on foot and on horseback. Thus they came to the barrow-field, where a fine tomb had been erected by the stonemasons of Edoras in the last months, and there Théoden was put to rest. Then many sturdy men took their shovels and raised a mound over the tomb, and it was covered in fresh turf. When at last this work was finished, the Riders of the King's House came forwards on their white steeds and rode around the mound. Fragments of song were carried up the hill to where Dirlayn and Déoric sat.

"There lies Théoden King," said Dirlayn. "For years it seemed he was but sleeping on his throne, but then he awoke and rose to glory. May his last sleep be peaceful."

Déoric knew that the sadness in her voice was not only for the old king, but also for her husband, and his thoughts went from the fresh mound to another, somewhere out in the wide grassy fields of the Mark, he knew not where.

Long after Dirlayn had gone into the house to see to their meal, Déoric remained sitting on the bench. He looked down to where the mounds were covered in green grass and studded with simbelmynë, nine on the left and eight now on the right. The song of a lark carried over from the barrow-field, the singer nothing but a tiny speck in the blue sky. The sun stood in the south, behind the White Mountains and the shadows were short at this time of day. On the low stone wall that marked the edge of their small kitchen garden a little green and brown lizard basked in the sunshine. It was panting in the heat, its flanks moving quickly. The stones had soaked up the midday sun and would cling to it while the day lasted, unlike those other stones that were now cooling under their blanket of turf into the endless chill of death.

Déoric put his hand on the bench beside him and felt the warmth of the rough wood. Thyme and rosemary that grew among the roots and cabbages scented the air. He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with as much air as they would hold. When he moved his head, the lizard scurried away.

* * *


	3. An unexpected calling

* * *

An unexpected calling

Two weeks after Théoden's funeral, the last of the noble guests departed. Éowyn, however, stayed in Rohan, for her brother had bidden her not to leave him yet. So she bade farewell to Faramir, her betrothed, and gave him a promise to return to the South before the year wore out, since their wedding was to be in the last week of November.

After Éomer had said farewell to his friends, he sat on his seat in the great hall alone save for his guards and a middle-aged man named Léofred. This Léofred had just been made the king's advisor, and deservedly so, having long held a position of responsibility at the court. In those days when Théoden King had been poisoned by the treacherous words of Gríma Wormtongue, Léofred had ordered the affairs of Meduseld, settled disputes and taken care of many matters great and small. If it was thanks to Éomer that the Riddermark retained strength of weapons during that time, it was thanks to Léofred that there was still sense and order in Edoras. He was a man of a calm temper, thoughtful, knowledgeable and diligent. To him Éomer now turned and spoke:

"The reign of Théoden King has truly come to an end. And now I must show myself as a king, not just on the battlefield, but on the fields of peace. I shall need your advice, Léofred, for I know little of how to govern a people at peace."

"You will find out in good time, my lord, the things you need and the things you wish to accomplish," replied the older man. "But there is much that must be done right now. Many refugees still remain at Dunharrow and at Helm's Deep and indeed here in Edoras, and they will need help rebuilding their homesteads. All over our lands, many fields and farms have been burned down and food is scarce in some parts, while in others there is more than enough. You would do well to devise a way for sharing it justly. Our horses are greatly reduced in numbers, and we need to take care of their breeding. Some of the stables in the city have fallen into disrepair, as has the granary - "

"I can see that slaying orcs was probably the easier part," said the king with a sigh. He rose and began to walk about the hall. Sitting didn't come naturally to him.

"You will not need to do this all alone, my lord," said Léofred. "There are trusty and able men among the Eorlingas and some that have always been faithful lieges to the king. If you can but find out the whole extent of the undertakings, then you can entrust them with some of these tasks, just as you would have entrusted them with the command of an éored in battle, and I am sure they will fulfil them to your satisfaction. In all that regards the ordering of this hall, your sister will be able to advise you."

"You speak well, Léofred," replied the king. He thought for a while and then continued: "Erkenbrand would see to the ordering of the Westfold anyway. I say that Elfhelm should have charge of the Eastemnet, and Bertwald of the Westemnet, after the lords of these places have fallen. The care of the horses will be overseen by Éothain. I shall speak to these men in the morning. The refuges that remain in Edoras will be under my sister's care while she remains here. I trust in you to give me a clear picture of the situation."

Léofred nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

"I believe you have chosen well, my lord. There is another matter I would draw your attention to. We have a number of men in Edoras who have been maimed in battle and are no longer able to work in their trade. Many of them live on the charity of their neighbours. I believe it would be our duty, my lord, to find suitable employment for them. Who knows, there might be some among them who could help us with the tasks we are now facing."

"Will we have blind carpenters and one-armed builders?" said Éomer, but when Léofred was about to reply, he continued quickly: "Very well, very well. You are right; we have a debt to them. They fought the same battles as those who died or survived unharmed. I will leave it to you, Léofred. See these men and give them employment as you see fit."

"I shall do so, my lord," said Léofred and took leave of the king.

Éomer stood for a while, musing about the fate of his country and even more so about his own. The war was over. Over. It was hard to comprehend for someone who had never known a world at peace. He had spent most of his adult life riding with the Eorlingas, and while he took no pleasure in killing, he had always enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the rush in his veins during battle. He loved the smell of the horses and the sound of their hooves on the grassy ground. That was all over now or at least as good as over. It was not as if he would never ride again, there would still be times when he would have to lead his people with sword in hand. In fact, he had sat with Aragorn just the previous night and they had spoken of the need to rout those orcs and hostile Easterlings that still remained east of the river Anduin. However, most of his time would be spent now staying in one place, sitting on a throne, ordering things that seemed mundane and domestic after the adventures he had seen. He would be a settled man, and he wasn't sure he would like it much.

There was a side to it, though, that might make it bearable. Over the last few days Éomer had talked much with Imrahil, and the Prince of Dol-Amroth had promised to visit Rohan again in the springtime, and to bring his daughter with him. Lothíriel was, so her father had assured him, an amiable and handsome young woman, with a warm heart and high spirits, and brought up with all the refinement of a Gondorian princess. She might grace the court of Meduseld with as much dignity as Éomer's grandmother had done. It was a pleasing prospect.

"I am glad to see you smiling," said a soft voice. He turned and found his sister standing beside him.

"I was afraid you would be downhearted now that all our friends are gone," continued Éowyn.

"You are still here," he replied and took her hand, "though it must have grieved you to part from Faramir."

"It won't be long until we meet once more and then nothing shall part us henceforth. I do not grudge these last few weeks that I will spend in my homeland and with my brother. Who knows when I shall see either of them again?"

"Éowyn," her bother said with tenderness, "your coming and going once you are wed I cannot command, but whenever you have need to see me, you only have to send word and I shall come on my speediest horse."

She pressed his hand and returned his smile and thus they stood for a while in silence, for neither of them felt the need to say any more.

oOoOo

Just before dawn he is on the Pelennor again. The air is thick with the smells of sweat and dust and horses. The cries of battle and the sounds of clashing weapons blur together to a deafening din. In the chaos around him he can barely tell friend from foe. He is looking for someone, he knows not who. Is it Halol? Niarl? All he knows is that he has to find him, but his feet are too heavy for moving, they are almost sticking to the ground. With a desperate exertion of will he pulls himself fee, and now he is floating over the battlefield, looking down on the fighters and the broken bodies on the ground. He still can't find him, he still can't remember who it is he is searching for so frantically. At last one spot on the ground pulls him downwards and he sees the soldier lying there. He wears the braided hair and the leather armour of the Eorlingas, and when Déoric looks closer to see which of his friends this is, he finds that the broken eyes staring up at the sky are his own.

"Déoric! Time to get up!"

He opened his eyes and looked up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The images of the dream faded, but the feelings it had evoked still clung to him like the aftertaste of a bitter nut. He sat up. His bed stood in the far corner of the main room, since he found it hard to climb the steep and narrow stair that led up to the two tiny bedchambers under the roof. Déoric looked around at the table, the three chairs, the carved chest, the white sand on the floor, trying to convince himself that this was home and that he was here. He did this daily and never quite succeeded. It was more than a leg that had been left behind on the battlefield.

Like every morning, Dirlayn had placed an earthen bowl of water on the stool by his bed. From the kitchen came the sound of her wooden spoon clanging in the pot. He pulled himself up and washed his hands and face. Then he dressed himself, opened his braids and took a horn comb to his hair. Dirlayn came and put two bowls of gruel on the table, while he plaited his hair and twined the thin leather straps around the ends. He stood up. His chair was about three yards from his bed. When Dirlayn went back into the kitchen to get the jug of milk, he hopped over without his crutches.

They sat and ate in the peaceful hush of the morning. Dirlayn stole glances at her son, who kept his eyes fixed on his bowl and clearly didn't intend to speak. So she sat in silence, a tall woman in her forty-third year, with strong features and wheat-blonde hair that was only just touched by the first hints of grey. When she had finished her meal, she put her spoon aside. Her lips moved soundlessly, as if she was mulling over something she wished to say but couldn't quite get herself to utter.

"I met Fana down by the field when I went milking. She's not looking too happy. You should go and speak with her," she said at last. Déoric didn't look up from his gruel.

"Why?" he replied. "What is there to say? It's not as if there were ever any promises between us. She is free to choose whomever she will."

"Oh, Déoric, what nonsense, no promises! It needs no betrothal when two young people have been frolicking about the country together the way you two have, and forever in and out each other's houses, too. I didn't know where to put my face when you made me send her away from the door."

"Well, she's stopped coming, so you don't have to worry about that anymore."

Dirlayn sighed and let the matter pass.

"You need to get ready to go," she said.

"I am ready," replied Déoric. "I don't see, though, what they would want from me. I don't really want to go. There must be at least a hundred steps leading up to the hall."

"All men so wounded in battle that they can no longer work in their usual trade. That's what they said, and therefore you have to go. Maybe they don't want anything from you. They might have something for you."

"You have much faith in the goodness of the world," said Déoric glumly.

Dirlayn gave no answer, but stood up and took the empty bowls off the table.

"Aldhelm will come here this afternoon," she called from the kitchen. "He is riding out into the Westemnet tomorrow. There is a man there in one of the villages, who lost his right foot at Helm's Deep. I will send him your spare shoes, if you don't mind."

"Oh, will you stop talking about my shoes, Mother!" yelled Déoric. He grabbed his crutches, hobbled out and slammed the door behind him with his elbow. Three crows that had been sitting outside the door cawed in alarm and took off, the tips of their black wings almost touching under their bodies. They were tossed about by a gust of wind and then they perched on the ridge of the neighbours' roof and watched Déoric making his way up the street.

oOoOo

At the back of the Hall of Meduseld stood a number of serviceable buildings; stables, storage houses and the living quarters of the king's guards. It was into one of these buildings, a long, lofty room that was usually used as a mess for the soldiers, that the crippled men had been asked to come. When Déoric arrived, weary from the climb, he saw that some two score men were already assembled.

Some of them he knew by sight and some by name, for they had been in the Houses of Healing, too, or were from Edoras; neighbours or people he had seen walking about the city for many years. But Edoras was at this time full of refugees. There had been other battles in other parts of the land, and many of the men, two dozen at least, he did not know at all. He sat down beside Wulfhere, a man who used to ride with Déoric's father, but whose sword arm had been so mangled by a troll hammer as to render him useless for a soldier's life.

Before long a grey-bearded man with an air of authority entered the room.

"That is Léofred, the king's advisor," whispered Wulfhere to Déoric.

Léofred greeted the men and explained that Éomer King wished to find them employment if possible. A low mumble of agreement followed his words, and he proceeded to speak to one man after another, asking each the nature of their injury, the kind of their previous occupation, and allocating to them such positions as they would be able to fill. Déoric strained his ears to listen for a while, but then his mind began to wander. In this very room his father had taken his meals at times, and had it not been for the Easterling's axe he, too, might be a member of the king's guard by now. It was an image too miserable not to be dwelt on. His thoughts only returned to the present when he saw Léofred standing beside him and heard Wulfhere explaining that he was a soldier by trade and had never been anything else.

"I fear I am of no use for any other occupation."

Léofred shook his head. "There you are wrong, Wulfhere. You know how to look after a horse, and we seem to have lost far too many stable hands. You can teach your left arm to feed and muck out horses. Go and report to the stable master."

Wulfhere stood up.

"I thank you, Master Léofred."

Léofred gave him a brief nod and turned to Déoric.

"And what is your name?"

"Déoric, son of Féadred."

"How old are you, Déoric?"

"I was nineteen last week."

"You are from Edoras, I believe? You face looks familiar."

"Yes, Master Léofred. I live here with my mother."

"What about your father?"

"He died two years ago during an orc raid in the Eastemnet. He rode in the éored of Théoden King."

Léofred furrowed his brow in concentration. "Féadred, you said? I think I remember him. Tall man, with a scar on his right cheek? Ah, yes. And what trade have you learned?"

Déoric paused. "I was brought up to be a soldier. I expected to join my father's éored," he said at last. He bit the knuckle of his second finger. His cheeks were flushed. Léofred drew breath to speak again, but Déoric continued hastily: "I would rather not work in the stables. It... it would be too painful for me. I am sorry if I seem insolent, but to see others take out the horses and to know that I will never..." He lowered his head.

"Fear not, my lad," said Léofred. His voice sounded softer than it had before. "I shall find you something else to do, if I can. What other skills do you have? Baking? Carpentry? Boot making? You need not be a master of the trade, if you can help somebody else with their work."

The young man shook his head and looked down.

"My father taught me to handle the sword and to mind a horse. He had been a soldier since his eighteenth year, and had never thought of another way of life. There is nothing that I ...that is ... unless ..."

"Well, what is it?" demanded Léofred.

"Oh, I don't think it will be of any use, but I can write."

"Indeed? That is an unusual skill."

"My uncle taught me. He was a scribe in Gondor before he came to the Mark to wed my aunt. I write a fair hand. My mother sometimes asks me to write a letter to her sister in Aldburg, if she can get hold of a piece of parchment."

Léofred stroked his beard.

"Can you do sums, too?"

"Not very well," replied Déoric. He still didn't look up.

"That is a pity. Still... yes, I think we will be able to make use of you. Report to me tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Master Léofred. Thank you." Déoric lifted his eyes, but the king's advisor had already moved on to the next man.

"What is your name?"

* * *


	4. Of quills and necklaces

* * *

Of quills and necklaces

At the foot of the stair that led up to the Golden Hall a spring emerged from a stone carved like the head of a horse. The water foamed into a wide basin and from there onwards flowed into a narrow stone channel that would lead it all the way through the city and out into the meadows. A blackbird sat on the horse statue, trilling into the morning mist. When Déoric approached it fled in a haphazard manner, half flying, half hopping, until at last it became airborne and swept away to perch on a nearby tree.

Déoric paused at the bottom of the stair. There were sixty-seven steps; he had counted them the previous day. This morning, however, he viewed them with less resentment and even a mild enthusiasm. There was a purpose awaiting him at the top, though what exactly it was he was not sure yet. He took a firmer grip on his crutches and made his way up.

Outside the Golden Hall two guards stood on duty, each holding a long spear. When Déoric said that he was to see Master Léofred, they let him pass without further question. He went in through the passageway and found himself standing in the great hall.

For a while he dared not move. He had not known that such splendour existed within the walls of Edoras. Pale morning light came in through the high windows and illuminated the mighty pillars carved with patterns of many colours. The very floor was covered with swirls of small, coloured stones. Banners and tapestries adorned the hall, and Déoric's eye was drawn to the image of Eorl the Young, mounted on the horse Felaróf, but before he could look closely he saw Léofred approaching from beyond the great fire in the middle of the room. He greeted the kings' advisor respectfully.

"I am glad to see you up early, Déoric," said Léofred. "Now you must meet the king, and then I shall show you the place where you will work."

He led Déoric up to the top of the hall, where Éomer King stood by a window.

"Here is the young man I've chosen as scribe, my lord," said Léofred. "His name is Déoric."

Déoric felt himself blushing, both from awe at being looked upon by the king and from understanding fully what task Léofred was giving him. Éomer gave him a friendly nod and smiled.

"I am glad we have found you, Déoric," he said. "Léofred tells me that there is much that needs to be written down. Do your task well and I shall not forget your efforts."

With some difficulty Déoric bowed and then Léofred ushered him through a door in the back wall. Here, behind the great hall, were the rooms required for many dealings of the court: the armoury, the treasury, the treasurer's archive. Léofred opened the door to a small chamber and gestured for Déoric to step inside.

"This was Hiltibrand's room," said Léofred. "He was scribe to Théoden King. He fell at Helm's Deep."

Déoric looked around the chamber. Along one wall there were shelves with stacks of documents and small wooden boxes for writing materials. Light fell from a large window onto a heavy oak desk. It seemed to have been left in quite a hurry. Worn out quills were lying between odds and ends of parchment; an unfinished inventory bore witness of the scribe's intention to return.

"What do you know of the scribe's craft?" asked Léofred and picked up a half-empty bottle of ink.

"As much as my uncle showed me," replied Déoric. "I can cut quills fairly well and I have some idea of how to concoct ink. But I'm afraid the preparation of parchment is beyond me."

"Speak to Guntram the Tanner about that. I believe he used to prepare all the parchment for Hiltibrand. Stay here now and take a look around. I will be back in an hour or so to set you a task."

oOoOo

In the weeks that followed, Déoric wrote lists. Lists of villages, lists of horses, lists of supplies, lists of people. The refugees who still dwelt in Edoras came to him one by one and he wrote down their names and the names of their home villages, how many cattle they had lost and how many horses and who of their family was still unaccounted for. In between writing tasks he was busy mixing his inks, sorting through the old inventories and conferring with Guntram about the parchment. The tanner told him that Hiltibrand had used a silver stylus as much as an ink quill, and after Déoric discovered the stylus in one of the boxes on the shelves, Guntram showed him how to prepare the parchment for this writing medium. Déoric found it convenient and clean and began to write all but the most official documents with the stylus, saving himself from the nuisance of ink-stained hands.

As time went by, Déoric was able to walk through the great hall with not quite the same feeling of awe. Every morning and evening he had to pass through it, for there was no other entrance to his writing room. With an appreciative eye he took note of the patterns on the mosaic floor, the carvings on the pillars. The shapes and colours pleased him. Most of all, though, his attention was drawn by the ancient banners that hung down from the rafters. On those rare occasions when he felt himself alone in the room, he stopped to study the pictures of his people's past. Thus it happened one day, when he was looking at the image of Eorl the Young mounted on the steed Felaróf, that he found himself thinking: 'This is all wrong. That is not what a horse looks like. The neck shouldn't curve quite so much and there is no sign of the knees. And the line of the jaw is..."

He had no chance to finish his observations, for at this moment the king entered the hall from the front. As quickly as he could, Déoric withdrew to his writing chamber.

oOoOo

In another house, higher up in the city than the home of Dirlayn and Déoric, and overlooking the market place, the stable master's eldest daughter was settling her younger sister into bed. Her mother was still chasing after the boys, since she had not yet given up hope of getting them washed. The little girl, however, had been promised that she could take her first ride on a pony the next day, if she was good. Therefore she lay in her bed, determined to be good, but utterly unable to sleep.

"Will you come and watch me, Fana?"

"Of course I will. I will be very proud to see you."

"Bea is a good pony, isn't she?"

"A very good pony, the best you could wish for."

The girl smiled and snuggled deeper under the blanket. Fana stroked the soft golden curls.

"Fana?"

"Yes, toots?"

"I saw Déoric today. Why does he not come to see you anymore?"

The smile on Fana's face went stale and the cheerful voice in which she replied was a bit too forced, too brittle.

"I don't think he likes me as much as he used to, toots. That happens sometimes. When men go away to foreign lands, they are sometimes not the same when they come back. There is a great city in the south and the women there, so I've heard, are very beautiful. I think Déoric might have met somebody whom he likes better than me."

The little girl considered this.

"But you wouldn't want to marry him now anyway, would you, with him having only one leg?"

"How can you say that!" cried Fana in her real voice. "Shame on the woman who abandons a soldier wounded in battle! No, I would have cared for him and looked after him, and I still would, if he let me. But he avoids me wherever he can. No, he must have fallen in love with someone else."

Though Fana had increasingly spoken to herself, the little girl had listened attentively.

"Are you sad, Fana?"

The older sister was silent for a moment, but the child noticed the head that was turned aside quickly, the hand that was swiftly raised to the eye.

"Yes, I am sad."

"Will you cry?"

"No, toots. I don't think that would help. It is ... "

At this moment, the door opened and the clamour of three young boys filled the room. Their mother followed close behind and sent them to their beds with stern words. Fana helped to tuck them in and kissed each of them good night. Then she sat down on the rug by the bed she shared with her sister and leaned her head against the wood of the bedstead.

Her mother seated herself in an armchair by the shuttered window. She spoke a brief blessing and bade them all a good night. Then she began to sing the lullaby, with a voice faint but clear. The boys, thinking themselves too old for such comforts, continued to whisper to each other for a while, but soon the lull of the song caught them, too, and they lay in their beds quiet and content. Fana closed her eyes and, soothed by her mother's voice, she let the tears flow.

oOoOo

Éowyn walked across the great hall with brisk steps. It was empty at this time of day save for the guards, because Éomer had ridden out with his éored to meet Elfhelm in Aldburg and Léofred was busy in the treasury. Before she reached the passageway that led to her apartments, she felt a tug in the nape of her neck and realized that the clasp of her necklace had caught in her dress. She stopped and reached behind her head to untangle the clasp. It was a movement that gave her trouble, especially in her shield arm. While she fumbled with the necklace, her look fell on the well in the corner of the hall.

This well was little more than a hole in the floor. It had been put there when the hall was first built to provide water at times when the building might serve as a refuge. However, the servants found it useful and drew water there daily whenever they needed it in the hall. It was usually covered with a wooden lid, but some careless person had left the lid lying to one side and though it was in an out-of-the-way corner, the gaping hole in the floor posed a danger.

Éowyn walked over to close the lid, still struggling with the necklace. Her fingers were tingling. Just as she knelt down to pick up the cover, the clasp came undone and with a small tinkling noise the necklace slid over the edge of the well and into the darkness.

After a moment of hesitation, she lifted out the bucket and peered down into the hole. It was too dark to see much, though, so she took a torch from one of the holders on the wall and shone it down. In the flickering light she could see the necklace at a depth of no less than thirty feet dangling from a protruding brick. Much, much further down a tiny glint indicated the surface of the water.

Éowyn stifled a cry of annoyance, when she heard the tock-shuffle-tock-shuffle of the young scribe approaching.

"Lady Éowyn?" he asked. "Is all well with you?"

"Oh – you are Déoric, aren't you? I had a little mishap. My necklace fell into the well. It is caught on a brick or something, but I do not know how to reach it."

"Let me see." He put aside one crutch and awkwardly lowered himself onto the ground to look down the hole. Meanwhile the guards had taken notice and two of them came across the hall to find out the cause of the commotion.

"A fishing rod maybe?" suggested one of them.

Éowyn shook her head. "That might just serve to pull the necklace off its hold and send it all the way down into the water."

"Is it very precious?" asked Déoric.

"It was a present from Lord Faramir on our betrothal," she said. "It is precious enough to me that I would climb down to get it, if I felt I could trust my arms. Alas, it was their very feebleness that caused the calamity in the first place."

"You would struggle to go down there anyway, Lady Éowyn," said one of the guards. "The well is just so narrow. It's scarcely wider than the bucket. I wonder how it was ever built."

The opening was indeed less than two feet wide and it was not conceivable how any grown person could descend into the shaft. The Lady of Rohan, though slender, was tall and broad shouldered, and while she might have fitted into the opening, once inside she would have barely been able to move. The men were too strongly built.

"Only a child could go down there," said the other guard.

"I cannot ask a child to do such a thing," said Éowyn firmly.

"I know who can do it."

All three looked round at Déoric. His cheeks were flaring.

"I know a woman who is small and nimble and a good climber. She … she would be down there in no time and bring back your necklace, Lady Éowyn. Do you wish me to fetch her?"

"I would be glad if your friend could help," said Éowyn. "But tell us where she dwells and one of the guards can go and summon her."

"With your leave, Lady Éowyn, I shall go myself. It is not far from here."

Without waiting to gain the permission he had so courteously sought, he turned and left. Éowyn sat down on a bench near the well and flexed her fingers in vexation. It was insufferable not to be able to rely on one's limbs. The guards launched into a conversation about lost trinkets, from which they moved on to stories about people and animals falling into wells, cellars and crevices. After a good while they had exhausted this topic and an awkward silence descended. Éowyn was beginning to feel impatient and exasperated that the scribe had disregarded her instruction, when Déoric returned. A small, freckled figure walked beside him, and Éowyn doubted for a moment that this was a grown-up woman, but then she realized that it was the stable master's daughter, who was bound to be seventeen at the least.

The young woman curtseyed. "Lady Éowyn. You wish to see me."

"What is your name?" asked Éowyn kindly.

"I am Fana, Lady Éowyn," replied the girl.

"Déoric believes you would be willing to climb down into this well to retrieve my necklace."

"Yes, Lady Éowyn. He has told me what needs to be done. Can I see this well?"

Éowyn stepped aside and gestured to the hole in the floor. With a furtive glance at the young scribe Fana crouched down by the side of the well and peered into the darkness. One of the guards held the torch for her.

"I can see it," she said. "I think I can get there, but I want to be tied to a rope."

"Of course. Egfrid!" Éowyn indicated to one of the guards to fetch a rope. Meanwhile Fana had got onto her stomach and was leaning into the well, exploring the walls with her hands.

"You will have to be very careful not to knock it down when you get there," said Éowyn, and then she felt foolish for having said such an obvious thing.

Before long Egfrid came back with a strong rope, which he fixed around Fana's waist and tied securely to the nearest pillar. Déoric watched him with vigilant eyes. Fana sat on the edge of the well with her feet dangling down into darkness. She felt around till she found a foothold and carefully lowered herself into the hole. Éowyn was on her hands and knees and watched the girl's descent, while Egfrid gave out the rope hand after hand.

Fana pressed her back against the side of the well and crept downwards inch by inch. When she had descended some fifteen feet, she stopped.

"I am stuck," she called. "My dress has caught on something. Get me back up a bit."

Egfrid pulled the rope up and they heard the sound of tearing fabric. Éowyn's head almost collided with Déoric's as they both leaned over the opening to look down. Suddenly Éowyn was assailed by images of the girl plunging down to the bottom of the well. She scolded herself for having allowed this endeavour for the sake of a trinket. No necklace was worth a human life.

"That's fine." Fana's voice resounded in the stony shaft. "I can go on now."

For a few more anxious minutes, they watched the fair head descending further and further.

"Hold on tight to the rope," called Fana. "I'm going to let go of the walls now, because I need to hold on to my dress, or else I might brush against the necklace. Have you got me?"

"I've got you," replied Egfrid. The rope tightened when Fana's full weight fell on it.

"Now lower me down, but slowly," came Fana's voice again. "A bit more. I can see it. Bit more. Bit more. Almost there. Wait. Wait!" One breathless pause. "I've got it. I've got it! Pull me out!"

Now Éowyn had to move away from the opening, for both guards had to work together to lift the girl back up. It wasn't long before her little blonde head appeared at the top of the well. She flung out her arms and clambered onto the floor. From her tightly clenched fist dangled the end of the necklace.

"Here it is, Lady Éowyn."

Éowyn embraced the girl with a sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness nothing happened to you! Thank you, thank you so much! And thank you, too – " She turned around to speak to Déoric, but he was gone.


	5. Reminiscences

Reminiscences

Later when she walked home with the ten shiny silver pennies in her pouch, Fana mulled over the events of the afternoon.

On opening the door and seeing him standing there, her heart had drummed so violently because he was come, come at last, and she had barely been able to listen to his words. Could she help, could she come up to the hall? Yes, of course, anything he asked her, she would just tell her mother, she'd be back in a minute.

Out on the street her mind had caught up with her pulse. She had looked at him, but he hadn't looked at her. Was this her Déoric? He had been so slow on his crutches and she had felt embarrassed at having to restrain her steps to stay beside him. Then she had felt guilty for feeling embarrassed and tried in vain to think of something to say that would rekindle the old familiarity between them. Déoric had talked, in a cool, quick voice which she didn't recognize, talked about nothing but the lady's predicament and his conviction that no-one else would be able to retrieve the necklace. With a sinking heart she had agreed to everything, yes, she'd try her best, yes, she was sure she could do it.

She had felt scared in the well, with the walls so close around her and the unfathomable depth below, but she could not let him down. How could she, since he had come to her for help and put his trust her. Still, she had felt as if she was descending into her grave. And then, in that anxious moment of coming up again, her quest fulfilled, ready to be caught in his arms, he had been gone.

Ten shiny silver pennies would be very welcome at home, and Fana did not regret having helped as kind and noble a woman as Lady Éowyn. The tears though, the foolish tears, were flowing unbidden and she knew not how to get the better of them.

oOoOo

He feels the wind on his face, galloping over the plain while the sun rises over the river. All his body is alive and throbbing with joy. When he comes to the ford he slows down to a walk, and with every step the horse takes there is a clank-clanking of the weapons he carries, Easterling axes and Haradrim spears. He doesn't know how he has crossed the river, but the city is in sight now, and he sees people milling about in front of the gates. And there she is, rushing over the meadow to meet him. He cannot see her clearly, but he knows it is her. He dismounts and runs towards her, lifting her off her feet and twirling her around.

A stabbing pain in his left leg woke him up. It was dark. Outside, an early autumn storm danced about and rattled the shutters. He turned over under his blanket and bit his knuckle. After a while, the pain in the invisible leg eased off. He curled up, pulling the blanket to his chin, and tried to rekindle the dream.

It was how he should have come home: radiant, victorious, with the spoils of war strapped to his belt. In the glow of such a return he would have found the courage to ask the stable master for his daughter's hand, humble soldier though he was. Instead he had rumbled through the gates in a cart, with no horse, no sword, no honour. What had he ever done to deserve this? How could he have shown his face to Fana? How could he have borne seeing pity or disgust in her eyes?

Of course, when he had knocked at her door the other day, there had been neither pity nor repulsion in her face. She had blushed and smiled and seemed so eager to do his bidding. And then she had descended into that dreadful hole for no other reason than him asking her. Hope and fear had almost choked him while he had held his breath and prayed that she wouldn't slip, that the rope wouldn't fail. By the time she had called out that she had found the trinket, he had almost made up his mind to throw himself at her mercy and he had been almost, almost sure that she would accept him and all would be well.

But then he had looked at the guards, two strapping men hauling up the rope with strong arms, while he stood aside, his armpits sore and raw from the crutches, unable to help, useless, useless. He hadn't been able to lend as much as a finger to the task of lifting her out of the well. No, he had been mistaken in his fleeting hope that she could still be his. If anything, she would see even more clearly now how worthless he had become. Before she could set eyes on him in all his misery, he had slunk away between the pillars.

oOoOo

In her day chamber on the second level, Éowyn paced from trunk to trunk. Her possessions were scattered about the room in various degrees of disarray, and she noticed with impatience how Acha would pack a velvet cloak into one trunk and Brandwyn would remove it shortly afterwards to place it into another, how Brandwyn bustled backwards and forwards through the door that led into the bedchamber without achieving anything tangible, and how the scribe, seated in a corner of the room though he was, always seemed to be in the way.

"That is twelve fine linen chemises and as many linen nightgowns with lace edging," droned Acha, while Brandwyn reported: "An ivory comb and mirror, three scent phials of coloured glass, a pair of silver scissors ..." Déoric's stylus scraped over the parchment, fighting a losing battle to keep up. "How many pairs of shoes?" he would ask, "How many gold bangles?" Eventually Éowyn could endure it no longer. She sent the women away and dictated the inventory herself, while she slowly and deliberately placed each item in the manner that pleased her.

After a while she fell silent and sat down with a plain white gown in her hands.

"This brings back memories," she said, when she saw Déoric's questioning look.

"I know, Lady Éowyn," replied he. "It is the gown they gave you in the Houses of Healing."

"You remember that?"

"Yes. You would not have taken much note of me, but I could hardly not take note of you. Everyone knew what valiant deed had led to your injuries."

"Oh, I do not know how valiant it was," said she. "Courage is easy to muster when one does not fear death, and I cared little for my life at the time." She looked at the garment wistfully. "The Houses of Healing changed that."

"My life was saved there, too. Do you remember the healer called Merilwen?"

"I do, but only vaguely. It was Ioreth who chiefly tended to me. But I seem to remember that Merilwen had a soft voice. She spoke to you often, did she not?"

"Yes," said Déoric. "I think if she hadn't, I might have hurled myself over the wall and made a mess on the pavement of the lower circle. She was a very remarkable woman. There seemed to be something almost like magic in that place. It is a pity – "

His voice halted and Éowyn looked up from her gown and scrutinized his face.

"What is a pity?"

He blushed.

"I mean no disrespect, Lady Éowyn, but I think it is a pity that there is no place here in Edoras that can compare to the Houses of Healing."

She smiled at his deference.

"You speak truth, Déoric. The old infirmary seems a sorry affair if one has felt the benefits of the Houses of Healing. I deem the sick and injured of the Mark deserve to be tended with the same skill as those of Gondor, and yet it is not so. Even if we had a building lofty and fair instead of that damp, dark cabin, I am afraid our healers do not possess the same wisdom."

She rose from her seat and placed the gown into one of the trunks.

"The Houses of Healing have been our salvation in more ways than one it would appear. We should show our gratitude that we have been returned to life and joy," she said. "Is that not so, Déoric?"

The young scribe cast down his eyes.

"Life and joy for you, Lady Éowyn, I believe. And life for me, at least, which is a blessing if for no other reason than that it saved my mother the grief of losing me."

Éowyn picked up another gown and began to fold it.

"Joy will come to you again in time, Déoric, though you may not believe it just yet. Now let us finish this inventory before it gets dark. Your mother must be waiting for you."

oOoOo

The following week Déoric was ordered into the great hall to take dictation from the king for a trade contract with the people of Tharbad. Léofred had been thoughtful enough to arrange seating for Déoric, and the young scribe leaned on the little makeshift desk while Éomer spelled out the details of the contract. The envoy from Tharbad, five men in fur clothing, looked on in quiet watchfulness.

When the contract was finished and both parties had signed, Déoric stowed away his scribe's supplies in a leather bag and waited to be dismissed by the king. Éomer, however, signalled him to come up to his gilded seat. Déoric pulled the strap of the bag over his shoulder, seized his crutches and made his way across.

"I wish to talk with you, Déoric," said the king. "My sister spoke to me before she left on a matter that I believe will interest you. She has convinced me that Edoras needs a better provision for the sick and injured than the current infirmary. We will not be able to accomplish anything as spacious and fair as the Houses of Healing in Mundburg, at least not for many years to come. But better accommodation shall be found. There are a number of disused storehouses by the old granary which I will have converted for this purpose. What say you?"

Déoric hesitated. Why Éomer would want to consult him on this matter he could not understand. He wondered if the king would consider him insolent if he pointed out, in front of all these people, too, the flaw of this plan. Eventually he said: "I would be pleased to see such a house in our city, my lord. The people of Edoras will thank you for it. However, with all due respect, it was the wisdom and skill of the healers more than anything else that made the Houses of Healing so wondrous."

Éomer smiled.

"I see that my sister and you agree on this matter. Your qualms are indeed warranted. The Lady Éowyn, when she comes to Gondor, will seek out the Warden of the Houses of Healing and will ask for one or two of the healers to come to Edoras and teach the secrets of their art to such of our folk as are willing."

"That is a very wise plan, my lord."

The king leaned back on his seat and laughed.

"I dare say it is. It was brewed up by a sharper mind than mine. Lucky is the king who has wise men and women to advise him."

Since there was no possible reply that Déoric could make to this, he simply bowed his head. He couldn't think why the king still didn't dismiss him.

"Tell me, Déoric, son of Féadred, do you like being a scribe?"

Caught out by this question, Déoric looked up and fumbled with his braid. He saw Léofred and the emissaries from Tharbad and the guards watching him. The king looked at him with calm and attentive eyes.

"I am very grateful for the position you have given me, my lord."

"But you would rather ride out with the Eorlingas, is that not true?

"Yes, my lord," he whispered. He cast down his eyes.

"There is nothing I can do to replace what you have lost, Déoric, much as I would like to. But I wonder if you would not enjoy a very different kind of challenge. Take a look at this."

Éomer rose from his seat and walked over to in the corner of the room, where he opened a richly carved chest and pulled out a rectangular object, which he handed to Déoric. It was a book, bound in pale brown leather. Embossed in gold letters it bore on the front the title The Kings of Rohan. The young man ran a finger down the spine of the book and along the edges of the cover. Awe and excitement mingled in his chest, for he had never touched a book before. He opened it gingerly and read:

'Eorl the Young was lord of the Men of Eothéod. That land lay near the sources of Anduin, between the furthest ranges of the Misty Mountains*..."

"It is a story of our people from the ancient times?" he said.

"Yes," replied the king. "Up until the days of Thengel, but not beyond. It comes from the archives of Minas Tirith. King Elessar has granted me a loan of it, and I brought it to Rohan to make a copy. It put me to shame that Gondor should keep a written account of our history, while we have nothing but songs and tales. I meant to copy it myself, but sitting with quill and parchment is not a pursuit I savour. Would you be willing to take on this task, Déoric?"

Déoric's eyes were still fixed on the book. He lifted his hand and bit into the knuckle of the second finger. Then he blushed, embarrassed that he should have displayed this childish habit in front of the king and the other people assembled.

"I would be honoured, my lord," he said at last.

"Good," said the king. "I shall give to you this charge then: To fashion a faithful copy of this book in the best writing you are capable of. Give us something we can be proud of."

"I will need a supply of good parchment, my lord," said Déoric.

"Order as much as you need from the tanner. Léofred, you have heard that I have given Déoric permission to do so."

When Déoric looked at him, the kings' advisor winked.

oOoOo

Dusk was settling on the city when Déoric made his way home that evening. His progress seemed insufferably slow to him, for he was eager to tell his mother about the events of the day. Far overhead a flock of wild geese was travelling southwards, the long lines of bodies trailing gently behind the leader.

* * *

*ROTK, Appendix A


	6. Horses

Horses

Under a pallid sky the dewy meadows lay grey and cold. Fana had been milking her mother's cows, which were grazing in the communal field outside the city gate. She was about to shoulder the yoke that would help her carry the heavy pails back up to her house, when she heard a rider approaching on the road. Soon she discerned the horseman and recognized the reddish braids and good-natured face of Niarl.

"Ho, there," he called and brought his horse to a halt. "Good morning, Fana!"

"Good morning to you, too. You're out early."

"Just for pleasure. I like an early ride sometimes. What about you, you're a bit late with milking. Little brothers have held you up again, eh? Here, let me help you with this."

He dismounted and lifted the yoke over the horse's saddle.

"You're going to spill the milk," said Fana.

"No, I won't," replied Niarl. He walked beside the girl and led the horse by the bridle, using the other hand to steady the yoke. "I'm not in the habit of spilling. I'm a careful kind of man, do you not know that? I've lived for twenty years in this world without mishap or accident."

Fana laughed. "I don't believe it. I'm sure your mother could tell me about plenty of spillages you've been scolded for. Anyway, you shouldn't make it sound as if people are to blame for their accidents."

His face turned serious.

"I know what you're thinking. But injury in battle is not an accident, Fana, and it's not through any merit of mine that I returned unharmed, or through any fault of his that Déoric didn't. Don't tell him I said anything like that."

"There's no danger of that," said Fana with a sigh. "He doesn't talk to me anymore."

"Still? That's too bad. Never mind, let him sulk a while. I haven't seen him much lately. He's been in a huff with me, too, though I have known him since he was born. But I think he will get over all that foolishness soon."

"What do you mean?" She glanced at the pails. The milk was sloshing about with every step the horse took, but right enough nothing was spilled.

"Oh, this whole thing about his leg has been a big shock for him. It will take him a while to come to terms with it. He went out a Rider of Rohan and he came back a cripple on a cart. It's not the kind of fate a man endures gracefully."

"Well, I know that, of course. And I rushed to his house as soon as I heard, but he wouldn't see me. I wanted to soothe him and comfort him, and he just wouldn't let me into the house. Dirlayn was quite distressed. I don't understand it. Of course he would be upset about his leg, but what does that have to do with me?"

Niarl shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe nothing, maybe everything. Coming home to be soothed and comforted by you was certainly not what he had expected when he left for battle. Especially not after all that mountain climbing and suchlike that you two were always up to. Give him time. Now that he's been taken on as a scribe, I'm sure he'll soon feel better. And who knows, it might be the making of him. I've sometimes thought that he wasn't really cut out to be a soldier. Words might suit him much better than weapons."

Fana looked at her shoes while she walked.

"That's not what he's been dreaming of. He always said to me that he wanted to be like his father."

"I knew his father and so did you! He was a good soldier, no doubt, but did you ever hear him tell a story? Of course you did. The man would have made as good a minstrel as any I've ever heard."

"Well, yes. You may be right. And in that case he might be still alive. But I don't think orcs ask if someone would rather sing songs by the fireside."

"Ah, but those times are over! What's left of these foul creatures will soon be routed from the face of Middle-earth. And then it'll be the likes of me that will find themselves at a loose end, while Déoric will be all snug and prosperous in his scribe's alcove. Believe me, Fana, it won't be long before he knows his good fortune, and then he'll stop sulking and all will be well."

"I hope you're right."

"Of course I am. I am always right! Hey, is that a tear that I see on your cheek? Don't be silly, girl, just have a little patience."

He reached out with a wiry hand and wiped the tear off her face.

They had nearly reached the gates. The sun was rising. From the bench outside his house, Déoric watched them, two figures the size of his thumbnail. He sat as long as they remained in sight. Then he grabbed his crutches and made his way up to the Golden Hall.

oOoOo

The great hall was deserted, for it was still early. A servant was only just preparing the fire in the big hearth at the centre of the room. Déoric passed under the banners with the horses that didn't look quite right and along the patterned pillars through the door at the back and into the scribe's room. He opened the shutters to let in the morning light and then slumped down on the chair in front of his desk.

And there it was - the book belonging to King Elessar. Déoric stretched out a finger and touched the edge of the front cover. The leather felt cool and slightly rough and a faint dusty smell emanated from it. He tried to put aside the thoughts about Fana and Niarl and was surprised to find that he could indeed do so, once he began to think of the man who had ridden into Edoras next to Éomer King.

King Elessar. He had seen the king once before, in Gondor, just a glance of a tall, dark man walking past in the Houses of Healing. He hadn't looked like a king then, just like a strong, weary, weather-beaten soldier, but the women had been whispering. Elfstone…banner unfurled… Mithrandir… from the north… sword that was broken … hands of a healer … Later, when he had come into Edoras with all the other noble guests, he had looked different, sterner and yet fairer. He was indeed the king of the ancient realm of Gondor, a country much older than Rohan, with wisdom and crafts that reached back in time to a depth that Déoric could barely imagine. Long before he had seen it with his own eyes from the window of a sick chamber, Himlebed, his uncle, had told him much about the city of Mundburg: A city with fair stone dwellings and skilfully wrought metalwork, with lush gardens and with a house full of books. They wrote books in Gondor, books of poetry and books of the tales of the elder days and they even thought it worthwhile to write a book about their neighbours, who possessed not the skills and the learning for such an endeavour.

And now Éomer King had asked him, Déoric son of Féadred, to copy this book. The full extent of the magnitude and the honour of the undertaking suddenly overwhelmed him and for a while he sat, awestruck, staring at the wondrous artefact. Writing lists and inventories was one thing, but to undertake so fine and splendid a work was another matter altogether. He had neither the skill nor the experience - he had not the confidence to tackle this task. Who was he but a cripple who couldn't ride in the kings' guard and whose girl had deserted him for another?

Déoric bit his knuckle. He was at the point of taking the book back to Éomer and confessing himself unable to fulfil the king's request, when it occurred to him to search his heart for his father's advice. Féadred had ever been a guide to Déoric, giving counsel to him in every predicament from the fullness of his experience. What would his father say to him now?

Never believe your foe cannot be overcome. The moment you relinquish your hope of prevailing, you are a beaten man. Take courage and look sharp!

Did not this apply here, too? Wasn't this the key to accomplishing anything, be it taming a horse or climbing a mountain –

No, better not think of climbing mountains. But, yes, he would be a fool to give up before he even tried. He needed to make himself think that he could do it. Courage, of course, wouldn't be much use here, what he needed was care and method and poise.

At last Déoric picked up a goose feather and cut a quill with all the care and skill he could muster. He pulled a piece of parchment towards himself and looked at it, trying to figure out the best place for putting the title. Then he shook his head, put it aside again and seized his wax tablet and stylus. Before he would submit a single word to parchment, he would have to think of the design of the letters he was going to use. His usual hand, clear and even though it was, would not suffice for this purpose. He began drawing a series of letters on the tablet, considering the tilt of the lines, the angles, the little adornments that would make each one a work of art. All morning and halfway through the afternoon, he employed himself in this manner. At last he was satisfied, and with great care he wrote on the first piece of parchment in inch high letters: The Kings of Rohan. It took him nigh on an hour, meticulously measuring out the spaces and painting each letter evenly and without smudging. When at last the ink was dry, he looked at his work with satisfaction. Then he covered it with a cloth and nodded to himself. This was indeed no minor commission. Give us something to be proud of, the king had said. If he was going to make this book, it was going to be magnificent.

oOoOo

Déoric was in the treasury with Léofred, writing down accounts to the older man's dictation, when Niarl strode in. The king's advisor looked at him, startled, but the young man smiled and quickly said:

"Do not be alarmed, Master Léofred. My name is Niarl, and I am a friend of Déoric's. His name seems to be a password into the Golden Hall these days, for when I mentioned that I wanted to see him, the guards let me in without further question".

"They are very neglectful then," said Léofred with a frown, "and I shall have to speak to them." He cast a questioning look at Déoric.

"Niarl has newly been assigned to the éored of Éomer King, Master Léofred," said the scribe. "He has been my friend since we were children." If there was a touch of coldness in his voice, Léofred took no notice of it, for he turned again to Niarl and said more kindly: "And on what errand have you come to see Déoric? Should you not be getting ready to ride out east with the king to his campaign with King Elessar?"

"Indeed, we mean to ride this very hour. I have come to say farewell," replied Niarl. "Please do not reprimand those guards. I was speaking in jest. I came through the door beside the king, who has given me leave to see my friend."

Léofred's face softened. "Well, Déoric," he said, "go with him then and see him off."

"But we haven't finished the accounts yet," said Déoric.

"The accounts can wait till this afternoon."

Déoric looked down at his parchments and bit his knuckle.

"I am giving you half the day off, Déoric," said Léofred. "Away with you, before I change my mind."

He handed Déoric the crutches and ushered him out the door. Niarl smiled at the king's advisor.

"Thank you, Master Léofred!" he boomed and put an arm around Déoric's shoulders.

"I can't walk with you holding on to me," said Déoric.

Out in the stable yard Déoric saw the familiar bustle of men getting ready to ride. There were horses everywhere, their hooves were clattering on the stone slabs and the smell of them hung over the place thick as fog. Déoric sat down on the edge of a feeding trough and leaned his crutches against the wall. He knew many of the men, some had been friends of his father, but they were all too busy to give him more than a friendly nod. After a while Niarl came through the stable doors leading his fallow horse. Déoric watched him adjusting the stirrups and straightening the bridle. Then Niarl left the animal tethered to an iron ring in the wall and came over to where Déoric was sitting.

"I'm not too keen on this adventure," he said and sat down beside Déoric. "Routing orcs I don't mind, but we are likely to deal with Easterlings on the other side of the Great River. I don't savour killing other men."

"You should be glad that you can ride," said Déoric.

"Oh, is that what the glum face is all about?" He placed his hand on Déoric's knee. "Listen, my friend, you've been lucky."

"Lucky! How can you call this luck?" cried Déoric and pointed to the sad stump that ended just two hand-widths below the hip.

"Yes, lucky," replied Niarl. "Has anyone in Rohan ever survived such a wound before? You were lucky that you were in the presence of healers with skills far superior to ours. And you were lucky that there was enough left of you for the healers to work on. Think of Halol! Isn't your mother glad to have you back? And now you can sit snugly in your room with your quills and parchments and not a worry in the world. You don't have to ride out to meet some savage enemies and risk life and limb in battle."

"That's because I've already done that," replied Déoric bitterly.

"Ah, but the thing is, you don't have to do it again."

"And what makes you think that should please me?"

"Déoric!" Niarl looked at him earnestly. "Déoric, do you really crave the danger? Is it the sweat and the pain that you want? Which would you rather, to be killed or to come home to tell my parents that I have fallen?" There was a hint of reproach in his voice.

"Don't talk to me about pain!" snapped Déoric.

Niarl sighed.

"I know you've got it rough, Déoric. I'm only trying to tell you that you are making it worse in your mind than it really is. What you're missing out on is not as great as you would like to believe, and you've gained something I don't think you quite appreciate."

"Well, I hope you appreciate what you have gained," snarled Déoric.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"No, you don't, do you?" He had stretched out a hand and touched her face...

At this moment the marshal appeared and gave the command to get ready. Niarl rose and went over to his horse.

"Just remember," he called to Déoric as he mounted, "that I am your friend, no matter what. Wish me luck!"

Déoric made no reply. Five minutes later the yard was deserted save for the stable hands. Wulfhere came over to him, a pitchfork in his left hand.

"How are things with you, Déoric? I hear you've been taken on as a scribe. Do you enjoy it?"

"It's not bad," replied Déoric and got up. "I'm sorry, Wulfhere, but I'm not in the mood to talk."

He hastened away in case the stable master made a sudden appearance. Back in his room he rested his arms and head on the desk. He felt the smooth wooden surface against his cheek and breathed in the smell of the parchments.

"I wish him to return unharmed," he firmly said to himself. "I do wish he will return unscathed."

It was the best he could do. Yet for all his bitterness he could not deny his good fortune when he thought of the three friends who had ridden out together. He walked on crutches, yes, but he still walked under the sun and under the open skies. In spite of the pain and the shame of the missing leg, in spite of the betrayal of his friend and his beloved, life tasted too sweet to wish himself dead. He envied Niarl with every fibre of his body, but he could no longer envy the fallen.

oOoOo

October was nearing its end and down by the river the leaves on the willow trees faded to yellow. One after another they drifted down into the languid waters and were carried away like a fleet of so many tiny boats.

It was early evening when Déoric came down from the city into the fields at the foot of the hill. He found a suitable knoll of grass and managed to seat himself comfortably. The stump itched and he tried to keep himself from scratching by occupying his hands. He grasped the damp grass and let it glide through his fingers. A faint smell of beginning decay wafted up to his nose. The air was clammy and a massive grey wall of cloud across the western sky hid the sun.

It was a good day for wallowing in misery and for seeking out the spot where he had first kissed her. This was the very tree where they had sat. Of course it had been summer then and very hot, so they had taken off their shoes and amused themselves by trying to pick up pebbles with their toes. They had laughed and Fana had leaned her head against his shoulder and suddenly kissing her had been the only right thing to do. He had kissed her again since, though by no means whenever they met. It had never been fully clear whether they were friends or lovers, for Déoric couldn't be sure if the stable master would ever approve of him as a husband for his daughter.

But that was all in the past and there was no sense in dwelling on it. He wouldn't kiss her again - ever. Instead the image rose in his mind of her kissing Niarl, but he knew he mustn't contemplate such a thing or else he would begin to wish ill on his friend, and that would be unforgivable. So he sighed and dragged his mind back to the scene in front of his eyes.

A flock of pigeons took to the air. They cruised leisurely, rising and circling like one body. As they swooped and turned, the setting sun sank below the cloudbank. It caught the underside of their wings and reflected a white light. Another curve in their flight made the light wink out and showed dark bodies against the evening sky.

Déoric looked across the river to the horses that were grazing on the bank, two brown and a dappled grey. They moved easily, in quiet contentment and at one with the world. Ever since his return he had stayed away from horses as much as he could, for seeing them made him ache for a ride and resent every man who still had two feet to put into the stirrups. When he had watched Niarl mount his horse the previous day, he had been close to tears. Yet for some reason these three horses munching peacefully on the fading grass made him feel calm and almost happy. Their heads swayed gently while their jaws worked in a steady grinding motion. Every now and then one of them pawed the ground or gave a lazy swish with the tail.

And then, suddenly, he saw it. There in the twilight it became clear to him with a thrilling transparency like something he had known all along and yet never understood. He looked beyond the colour and texture of the fur and there were the shapes, the circles and ovals and curves that made up the outlines of the animals' bodies. They were so simple, so natural, so right, and then he understood, too, why those horses on the banners in the great hall did not look real, could not look real.

He watched with apprehension, fearing that this vision might fade, but it was as if a veil had been drawn away from his eyes and the clarity of his new discovery did not diminish. Then images began to fill his mind of other horses, horses prancing or rearing or galloping, and there, too, he saw the simple shapes that formed their silhouettes. If one could but capture that in a picture!

In this reverie he sat for a long while. At last, when then chill had soaked his clothes and the light was all but gone, he rose and braced himself for the way home.


	7. Inky visions

Inky visions

Déoric had been busy all morning making a copy of the armoury's inventory. It was now early afternoon, he had eaten his piece of bread and his apple and tidied away the parchments into the designated boxes. This was the moment, and he savoured it, when he could turn his attention to the book.

With some justification he had reasoned that it would make sense to know the whole content of it before he embarked on making the copy, and so for the last two afternoons he had been absorbed in the history of Rohan's kings. He had read about Eorl the Young, who came down from the North to aid the Steward of Gondor at the battle on the Field of Celebrant. He had read about Helm Hammerhand and his feud with Freca and how Helm died standing with unbent knees on the Dike of Helm's Deep. He had read about the Yule feasts of Brytta, when every man, woman and child in Edoras was bidden to the Hall of Meduseld to partake in the banquet and the merrymaking of the king. He had read and read until the past of his people stood before him like a rich, colourful picture that he wished he could free from his mind's eye and show to the world.

Now he was keen to start on the actual work of copying. He took his knife and carefully cut a new quill. With his wooden ruler and a piece of chalk he marked out the margins of his parchment. Then he placed the book on the stand and opened it at the beginning. The first passage was dedicated to the descent of Eorl the Young. Déoric glanced over the text.

"Léod was the name of Eorl's father. He was a tamer of wild horses; for there were many at the time in the land. He captured a white foal, and it grew quickly to a strong horse, and fair, and proud. No man could tame it. When Léod dared to mount it, it bore him away, and at last threw him, and Léod's head struck on a rock, and so he died*..."

Suddenly Déoric's hand started to move all by itself. He blinked away the tears, which came with the memory of his own white stallion, Thunderhoof. The horse had screamed in agony as he lay on the battlefield with broken limbs. In spite of his own terrible pain, Déoric had pulled himself up and cut the animal's throat to end his suffering. There had been blood on his hands, blood on his clothes, blood everywhere. The horse had twitched one last time and then become still. He hated the memory of that moment. He knew that it had been the right thing to do, but that didn't stop him from feeling like a murderer. Thunderhoof had been his friend. They had ridden out together unnumbered times, and he had been able to read the animal's every move and noise. Killing him was like cutting off another limb of his body and he missed him almost as much as his own leg. He could see him in his mind's eye now, how he would canter across the field to come and greet him. He grieved for him as much as he grieved for his fallen friend.

Eventually his mind became conscious of what his hand had been doing. He had drawn a horse. It was a great rearing steed with its head held high and the front hooves pawing the air. And it looked right. There were the circles and ovals and curves just like he had seen them the other day. Even though there was no colour and no fine detail, the horse looked ready to jump out of the page. Guiltily Déoric looked at the precious parchment, designated to be filled with the names and deeds of the Eorlingas. Léofred had better not see him put his resources to such frivolous use. He shoved it under the pile as soon as it was dry, prepared another page and began to carefully write the first sentence of the text in front of him.

oOoOo

In the second week of November Dirlayn's older sister Aedilhild came to Edoras with her husband Himlebed for their annual visit. It was the time of year when there was little to do on the farms and they felt they could leave the care of the animals to their trusted farmhands for a few weeks.

They were a childless couple, for they had married late, and so their only nephew was all the more precious to them. Déoric loved them both dearly; his aunt, who resembled her sister in many ways, and the haggard, dark-haired uncle. Upon his marriage Himlebed had exchanged the quill for the plough, because he had grown weary, he said, of the chambers of stone and yearned for a life under open skies. His love for his first calling had never quite left him, though. During those long, happy summers that the child Déoric had spent on their farm near Aldburg, he had not only taught the boy his letters, but implanted in the budding mind a lasting love for the written word. Déoric still kept like a treasure the wax tablet and stylus which Himlebed had given him at Yuletide when he was eight years old.

It was early evening and a purple dusk lay over the city when they arrived. "Oh, my dear boy," cried Aedilhild as soon as she was through the door and smothered Déoric in her embrace. Himlebed gravely shook hands with him, and Déoric noticed with embarrassment that there were tears in his aunt's eyes. He felt uneasy to have them see him so reduced for the first time, and yet he was impatient to tell his uncle about his proud new task. Dirlayn bustled about, stoking the fire, bringing water for washing, urging the guests to sit, to take off their shoes, to partake in the meal of bread and butter and eggs she had laid out on the table. Déoric barely waited for them to be seated before he burst out with his tale. Soon he was engrossed in conversation with his uncle, while the two women talked softly at the other end of the table.

"How many pages?" asked Himlebed.

"Forty-two."

"Hm, that is not very much. Still, it will take you a few months if you want to do it decently. You will hardly finish as much as a page every day."

"I do about half a page a day. I have other duties to fulfil, too."

"Do you write on parchment or on vellum?" the uncle asked.

"On parchment. Éomer King has granted me to order as much as I need from the tanner. But Léofred, the king's advisor, keeps an eye on me so I don't waste it."

"That is as it should be," replied Himlebed and spread butter on another piece of bread. "Someone needs to make sure that a young whippersnapper like you doesn't spend his time doodling in the margins. I remember when I was an apprentice, my master used to say, save a sheep, don't waste parchment."

Déoric snorted. "He really said that?"

"Yes. He was a man with an odd sense of humour. Nevertheless, you will do well to keep in mind that writing surfaces don't grow on trees. When can I see your work?"

"Tomorrow, if you wish. I am sure Léofred will not mind if I bring you up to the hall. After all, you are a master of the craft."

Himlebed laughed. "Hardly anymore, after all these years. But I would very much like to have a glimpse at what you are doing, and who knows, there might be a thing or two I could advise you on."

"That is just what I was hoping for," said Déoric.

And so the next morning Déoric introduced his uncle to the king's advisor. Léofred welcomed the man and urged him to take a good look at Déoric's work and suggest any improvements he could think of.

"For Déoric works with diligence and care, but he lacks experience, and there is none left now in Edoras who knows the craft of the scribe."

Himlebed agreed to this willingly and took a seat at the desk in the scribe's room. For nearly an hour he pored over the six pages Déoric had already completed, while the young man watched him anxiously.

"You have done well so far, my lad," the uncle said eventually. "That's a fair, even stroke, and the letters are pleasantly shaped."

"I thought carefully about their design before I started writing, uncle," replied Déoric and showed him the wax tablet with his letters. Himlebed nodded his approval. Then he turned his attentions to the quills lying on the desk. These, too, seemed to pass muster. At last he opened the inkbottle and sniffed it. Then he dipped a finger into it and placed a tiny drop of ink on the tip of his tongue.

"What did you put into this?" he asked.

"Vitriol, gum, vinegar and water," said Déoric.

"No galls?"

"No. I didn't know about galls."

Himlebed furrowed his brow. He looked with regret at the parchments spread out in front of him.

"It will fade," he said quietly. "Not for a decade or two, so you do not need to worry about your accounts and inventories. But it is no use for writing a book. A book is something you want to last. This ink, I'm afraid, may look strong and black, but in the end it will fade. I've seen it, my lad, in the libraries of Minas Tirith. It is a sad thing to open an ancient tome and find nothing but the withered ghosts of words."

Déoric was silent. He bit his knuckle so hard that he made himself wince with pain.

"I can start again," he said after a while. "It is only six pages. If I explain to Léofred, I am sure he will not think it a waste."

"How long did this take you?" asked Himlebed kindly.

"Almost two weeks. But I was very slow at the start and I am beginning to get faster. If you show me how to make a better ink, I can easily start again."

Himlebed smiled and put an arm round his nephew's shoulders.

"I will show you," he said. "This must be a nasty surprise for you. I am glad you are taking it like a man."

oOoOo

The three weeks the visitors spent in Edoras were filled with much talk and laughter and many hours usefully employed by uncle and nephew in the pursuit of the scribe's craft. Déoric had not expected that he could ever feel quite so happy again, but Himlebed's competent instructions and his calm, warm-hearted manner instilled a new confidence in the young man, and the desire to excel, which he had felt on first embarking on his task, was now paired with a growing belief that he would indeed succeed. By the time Aedilhild and Himlebed left, Déoric had regained a portion of his former cheer and Dirlayn slept easier at night than she had for months.

It was the middle of December now and wind and rain reigned over Edoras. The little scribe's room had no fireplace, and though Déoric kept the window shuttered and worked by the light of a flickering rush lamp, it was draughty and bitterly cold. He wore several layers of woollen clothes and fingerless gloves that Dirlayn had knitted for him, but still his hands became so cold and stiff that it was difficult to work. Twice a day a servant would bring him a stone that had been heated in the kitchen fire and which, wrapped up in a blanket, served to keep his foot warm. There was nothing anyone could do about the other foot, which felt cold at times and hot at others, itchy or downright painful. Déoric ignored it as best he could. He was getting used to it, but it still puzzled him how a leg that wasn't there any more could continue to give him so much trouble.

He had taken up the habit of briefly opening the shutters around noontime and putting the leftover crumbs from his crust of bread onto the stony windowsill. More often than not a few robins would already be waiting and would flutter up excitedly to pick at the morsels. One day Déoric was watching with a smile the antics of the little birds, when he was surprised by the sudden appearance of the king in his chilly domain. Éomer sauntered in without ceremony and greeted the scribe in an affable manner. The robins fled in a whirr of tiny wings. Quickly, as if caught in some act of felony, Déoric closed the shutters and turned to his king.

"My lord, I am very glad to see you returned safely. Was your campaign successful?" he said before he realized that it was not his place to speak like this to the king. He lowered his head.

"Very much so," replied Éomer unconcerned. "Those Easterlings gave us very little trouble, which is why we have returned much earlier than expected. We arrived but this morning."

"If I may ask, my lord – did you lose any men?" He bit his knuckle and looked anxiously at the king.

"Sadly, yes, four of our riders did not return. There will be weeping in some houses in Edoras today, I am grieved to say. But," he quickly continued when he saw Déoric's look, "there is not a scratch on your friend Niarl, as far as I know. He is a bold young man and courageous, but he has good sense, too, and he knows when to keep his head down."

Déoric rubbed his ear in a nervous gesture that did nothing to improve his composure in the presence of the king. He said nothing more and waited to hear what had brought Éomer to him.

"Léofred tells me that you have been working very diligently on the book and that you brought your uncle to help you. I should like to see what you have accomplished so far. Is this it?" The king seized the pile of parchments that was lying uppermost on the desk and began to look through them. Déoric crossed his arms and hid his hands in his armpits in an attempt to warm them up.

"There are eleven pages completed, my lord. I had a lot of other work to do recently, which Léofred deemed more important, and I had to discard the first six pages I had written, because my uncle told me that the ink would fade. I am very sorry about that, but I had little experience with concocting ink. My uncle has now shown me how to make a mixture that will last."

"Fair enough. Nobody expected you to achieve perfection with the first stroke. It is as well that your uncle spotted the mistake before you had progressed further."

"Yes, my lord, that was lucky."

"And what's this?" asked Éomer and held up a piece of parchment. It was the picture of the horse which Déoric had drawn a few weeks ago. He had forgotten that is was still among the pile. He swallowed.

"It's just a drawing I made, when I read about Eorl and Felaróf. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry, my lord, it will not happen again." He cast down his eyes.

"Do you like to draw?" he heard the king ask. There was no anger in his voice. Déoric looked up.

"I used to draw a lot with chalk on my slate, when I was a boy. When I grew older, it seemed a childish thing to do and I stopped. I don't know what came over me, my lord."

Éomer walked up to the window, opened the shutters and studied the picture in silence.

"Why have you never told me that you can do this?" he demanded after a while.

"My lord. I haven't thought of it in many years. Drawing is not a skill that has any use..."

"Ah, that is a soldier talking," interrupted the king. "But the war is over now, at least for many of us and certainly for you. In times of peace we may find uses for skills we have never regarded before. Can you capture a likeness, too?"

"I don't know, my lord. I've never really tried in earnest."

"Draw me," said Éomer and flopped down on the other chair.

Déoric didn't dare refuse his king's command. He bit his knuckle and looked around on the desk. The horse had been drawn with a quill, because that was what had been in his hand at the time, but now ink seemed a daunting choice, and he hunted around for his stylus. When he had found it, he drew a piece of parchment towards him and glanced at the king.

Éomer had his blue eyes fixed on Déoric in an attentive stare. His expression was not unkind, but solemn. It took Déoric some courage to look his king directly in the face as he tried to catch the features. There was the forehead, square and bold, and the keen eyes under strong brows. The nose and chin, too, spoke of firmness and determination, but there was a softer trait around the mouth. Déoric knew that the king was capable of compassion and tenderness, not the least because he had seen him taking leave of his sister. His hand began to move.

Half an hour went by, during which neither of the men spoke a word and Éomer barely moved a muscle. A cold wind blew in through the window, but Déoric didn't dare ask for permission to close the shutters. Instead he fixed his eyes on the shapes he saw before him and translated them, slowly and methodically, onto the parchment. At times he had to lean heavily on the desk to stop his hand from shivering, and his teeth chattered. He wondered how the king could be so unaffected by the cold. At last he put aside the stylus.

"It's not very good, but it's the best I could do," he said.

"Let me see."

Éomer stood up and seized the parchment from the desk. He held it up to the light and scrutinized it with a furrowed brow. Then he laughed.

"Do I really look as stern as that? Or are you so in awe of your king? No, you don't have to answer that. I shall keep this, if you don't mind."

He rolled up the piece of parchment, put it behind his belt and closed the shutters.

"Very well, Déoric. It would seem that you have the making of an artist, if you could but practise your talent. As your king, I desire that you should do so. Do you know what a frontispiece is?"

"No, my lord."

"It is a beautifully illuminated title page to a book. Make one. I have seen such pages in the library in Minas Tirith, in vibrant colours and embellished with gold leaf. You cannot attempt anything of the kind, but this silverpoint fashion will do very well. And for each of the kings I wish you to make a drawing that depicts them in a suitable style."

"My lord, I fear that is beyond me," cried Déoric.

"No false modesty," said the king with a smile and tapped the drawing of the horse. "You have the talent; now work on your skill."

With brisk steps he went towards the door, but then he turned round again.

"Can I have some of your ink?"

"My lord?" said Déoric, bewildered.

"Ink, Déoric, for writing. I had a bottle left of Hiltibrand's, but it is finished. I have been ... writing a lot of letters lately."

To Déoric's astonishment, the king suddenly looked embarrassed and a lot younger.

"Of course, my lord." He rose and went over to the shelves, where he stored a supply of ink. "Will you need parchments, too?"

"I am well provided with parchments, thank you, Déoric," said Éomer and took the bottle out of the scribe's hand. Then he made his way out and left Déoric in a state of confusion. Flattered and excited as the young man felt by the king's new commission, he thought that there was no way he could creditably fulfil the task. The sketch of the king, though showing a reasonable likeness, was nowhere near good enough to be included in a scheme such as this. As for the other picture, that dazzling image of the rearing horse, it had come to him almost like a dream and he had no notion of how he could ever repeat that achievement.

* * *

*ROTK, Appendix A


	8. With open eyes

With open eyes

Two days later Déoric still didn't know how to tackle his new assignment. It was clear to him that he couldn't just sit down and start drawing. He wanted the pictures to look right, just like the drawing of the horse looked right, but every time he picked up a stylus and an old, scraped piece of parchment to make a sketch, the images in his mind eluded him.

In his mind, indeed, he saw them. Seeing images, he had realized shortly after his revelation in the meadows, was something that he had done since childhood, ever since he had tried to catch these pictures on his slate without ever being quite satisfied with the results. When the king had approved of his drawing and told him to illustrate the book, part of him had been worried and overwhelmed by such a charge, but another part had rejoiced and whispered to him, wasn't this what he'd been wanting to do all his life?

He had turned round to that whispering voice and scolded it for talking such nonsense; where did it get such a notion, he'd wanted to be a soldier like his father, that's what he'd been wanting to do all his life. But as the voice slunk away and sulked in a corner of his mind, he couldn't help thinking that whatever he'd wanted to do with his life in the past, right now he wanted to draw pictures. It wasn't something that he wanted more than anything else, not more than having his leg back or kissing Fana, but he wanted it with a rising passion that balked at his lack of skill in exasperation.

His slate! Did he still have it? Had his mother stowed it away somewhere in the house? If he could take his slate and a piece of chalk, then he could go down to the meadows again and look at the horses, and maybe then he would be able to draw them the way he wanted to. Once he had a sketch on the slate, it shouldn't be hard to copy it onto parchment.

The next morning he arrived at the hall with the slate, which Dirlayn had found stashed in the rafters in a sack of children's toys. All evening he had been busy with it, sketching Dirlayn and almost every piece of furniture in the house. Just as he had expected, the images flowed willingly onto this old familiar surface. He went to Léofred and asked for leave to go out sketching. The king's advisor rubbed his beard and looked at him thoughtfully.

"Go, by all means. But I think the horses in the fields won't be enough. You will need to draw men, too, not just horses," he said.

"I know, Master Léofred. I thought of asking some men I know to sit for me. If it's not too bold, I was wondering if I could sketch you. You have a very dignified look."

Léofred laughed and shook his head.

"You flatter me, Déoric, but you are missing the point. You need men sitting on horses. How are you going to manage that?"

"Well..." Déoric had thought of this, too, but hadn't come up with a satisfactory solution.

"Do you think you could bear to visit the stables again?" asked Léofred. "I remember that you didn't want to work there, but maybe mucking out is one thing, but it's another to go there as," – he paused for effect – "an artist? Think about it. I shall speak to the stable master and tell him that you wish to make sketches in the stable yard."

"No!" cried Déoric. Léofred looked at him, surprised by the violence of this response.

"My dear Déoric," he said. "I understand your reluctance to look very closely upon a way of life that is lost to you. But I advise you to think the better of it. The king has honoured you greatly with his commission. It is your duty to fulfil it as best you can. You wish to hide from the unpleasant things like a child, but it would become you well to act like a man and face the truth."

Déoric bit his knuckle and looked to the floor.

"I will think about it, Master Léofred," he said at last.

"Think quickly then," said Léofred with a smile. "I want your answer tomorrow morning. Off you go."

When Déoric was at the door, the king's advisor called after him: "You should draw the stable master, you know. He's as fine looking a fellow as ever I saw."

"Yes," answered Déoric gloomily. "I know him."

oOoOo

It was very quiet in the house with no sound to be heard bar the crackling of the fire. Dirlayn was used to the silence by now, though she sometimes thought with a sigh of the times when Féadred's boots would echo on the wooden floor and little Déoric would giggle and chatter all day long in his high-pitched voice. The lad still confided in her at times like he had done since childhood, but his tones were often hushed and hesitant. At first he had talked with great enthusiasm about his writing, but now his mind had turned to all sorts of fine detail that he described to her very earnestly at the supper table, always sober, always serious. She hadn't heard him laugh since his aunt and uncle's visit.

This morning she had decided at last to embark on the melancholy task of sewing up Déoric's trouser legs. He had developed a way of folding them up and tucking them in, but they often slipped out again and caused a nuisance. There were three pairs of trousers save the one he was wearing, and Dirlayn laid them out on the table next to her sewing box. Then she stoked up the fire. She went through to the kitchen to clear away the breakfast dishes and climbed up the stair to tidy her bedchamber. Back downstairs, she stood for a while and didn't move. The sand on the floor, she thought, looked grubby, so she took her broom, swept up and sprinkled new sand from a bucket in the shed. Noontime came and went and still the trousers were lying on the table.

Eventually Dirlayn sat down and took the scissors out of her sewing box. She lifted the first pair of trousers and smoothed them out on her lap. For a while she sat and looked down at them. Tears rolled down her face when at last she cut into the fabric just above the knee. She wiped them off firmly. It wasn't as if the leg was going to grow back. With skilful fingers she sewed together the edges of the fabric.

By the time she had finished with all three pairs of trousers, the light was fading. She folded up the garments and placed them onto Déoric's bed. He would be home soon, hungry for his supper. She went into the kitchen and started to peel potatoes.

Half an hour later, she heard him coming through the door. She put her wooden spoon aside and went to greet him. He kissed her briefly on the cheek and sat down to take off his boot. Dirlayn brought the supper from the kitchen. Some months ago there would have been nothing but potatoes and gravy, but now that Déoric received his pay every week there were sausages and leeks and ale, too. She began to pile food onto Déoric's plate.

"I'm not hungry," he said.

"You've been out all day," she replied and put the plate in front of him.

"I don't want anything."

"Déoric, you've got to eat, you've got to keep your strength up. Look, these are your favourite sausages."

"Mother, I am not hungry!" snapped Déoric. "Why do you have to treat me like a child? Can you not just hear what I'm saying and leave me be?"

He pushed the plate away so violently that the sausages landed on the table. Then he got up, hopped over to his bed and threw the trousers on the floor without looking at them.

"I'm tired," he said. "I'm going to sleep."

Dirlayn silently cleared the spilled food off the table. She ate her own meal and carried the dishes through to the kitchen. The clanking of earthenware and the sloshing of water was heard. When she came back through she picked up the trousers from the floor, folded them and put them on the stool by Déoric's bed. He was lying under his blanket with his back to her.

"Good night, my son," she said softly and blew out the candles.

oOoOo

Ethelhelm, the stable master, was indeed a fine looking man. He was not as tall as most of the Eorlingas, but well built, and the pleasant features of his face, framed by shiny blonde hair, were usually lit by a winning smile. His attire was as neat as his beard and the wrinkles around his eyes only added to his appeal.

The stable yard was quiet and empty this morning and Déoric felt the more awkward for being alone with the man. Ethelhelm had greeted him civilly as behoved an old acquaintance and made no allusion to Déoric's recent avoidance of his household. Instead he had remarked politely how impressed both Léofred and the king seemed to be with Déoric's work and had suggested a fine stallion to be brought out for the picture. Wulfhere had led the steed into the stable yard and Ethelhelm had mounted with ease.

Déoric asked him to move closer and stand at an angle that was convenient for him to draw from the bench where he was sitting. He took his slate on his knee and seized a piece of chalk. Posing seemed to come naturally to the stable master. He sat with his shoulders drawn back and his head held high, forming an image of complete harmony with the horse. His casual smile remained on his face without fading while Déoric sketched. The animal was calm and still in the hands of this man.

Déoric tried to put all thoughts of Fana aside and just look at Ethelhelm as a model for his picture. Under his fingers the figures took shape with amazing ease. All he had to do was to look, and the shapes would stand out as clearly as they had that day by the river and found their way through his fingers onto the slate. For a while he worked in deep concentration, but then his mind began to wander. He couldn't help reflecting on how closely connected he might now be with this man in front of him if the fortunes of battle had been kinder to him. For a moment he doubted that even then the stable master would have been too pleased to marry his daughter to a mere soldier. He had never quite been able to fathom Ethelhelm. However much time he had spent in the older man's house, he had rarely spoken more than a few words with him, busy as Ethelhelm always was with many matters concerning the care of the horses and the running of his lively household.

"It's been a good while since you've last been to our house, Déoric," said the stable master suddenly as if in response to the scribe's thoughts. "The boys were wondering whether they had scared you away. They can be rather obnoxious, don't you think?"

"I have no quarrel with your boys," replied Déoric.

"Oh, I can't imagine that any of my womenfolk would have offended you," said Ethelhelm.

Déoric bit his knuckle and wished he hadn't caved in to Léofred's pressure. This was turning out to be worse than he had feared. He lowered his head and fixed his eyes on the slate. Eventually, though, he had to look up again if he wanted to continue with his sketch. Ethelhelm sat as before, with his chin raised, his eyes now looking straight ahead as if into some unknown distance. He no longer smiled.

An uncomfortable half hour passed before Déoric, somewhat prematurely, declared the sketch finished and thanked the stable master for his time. Ethelhelm dismounted and disappeared into the stable building with a brief greeting. Wulfhere led the horse to the feeding trough for a well-earned treat and then came across the yard towards Déoric. Suddenly he stumbled and almost fell, for his bootlace had come undone. He cursed under his breath and put the foot on the bench next to Déoric.

"Could you help me with that, please? I'm afraid I just can't do it anymore."

"That must be awkward," said Déoric and swiftly tied the laces.

"It is," replied Wulfhere. "Anything fiddly is just beyond me now. My wife has to braid my hair and help me with my clothes. Oh, well, I don't want to complain. As long as I can lift a shovel I'll be able to earn a living."

Déoric looked from his stump to Wulfhere's crippled arm. It had been squashed from the elbow downwards and the fingers were twisted and out of shape. Then his gaze turned to his own hand and the long, strong fingers that held the chalk.

"You're a better man than I am, Wulfhere," he said quietly. "I didn't take it so stoically."

With a sigh, Wulfhere sat down beside Déoric.

"I am an older man, Déoric. My house is long built, my children are grown. I can see how much harder it must be for you."

"I'm trying to get used to it," said Déoric.

"Well, I'll not tell you that you ought to be grateful, because I know fine well how hard it is to be crippled, but I'll say this much: Not many men have come back from war as severely wounded as you and have found themselves raised to positions of trust at the court. I don't mind mucking out stables, but on some of these chilly mornings I feel like I would quite enjoy sitting in the hall."

"Oh, the stables are probably warmer than the scribe's chamber. My fingers are quite frozen sometimes."

Wulfhere shrugged.

"Your fingers are serving you well," he said and pointed at the slate. The sketch, though rough, looked very natural. Déoric had to admit that he was pleased with this morning's effort. He wrapped it in a cloth and stored it in his bag.

"I suppose they do," he replied. "Thank you, Wulfhere. I'd better get back inside now, I still have scribing work to do."

He pulled the bag strap over his shoulder and left the stable yard. On his way to the scribe's room he encountered Léofred.

"Well, have you drawn Ethelhelm?" asked the king's advisor.

"I have, Master Léofred. Do you wish to see the sketch?"

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled the slate out of his bag and handed it to the older man.

"It's a bit smudged at the top, but I'll be able to work from it."

Léofred regarded the drawing quietly and then nodded.

"Very well, I shall look forward to your finished version. I was meaning to speak to you, by the way. I think you might like to know that the work on new the infirmary was finished last week. The healer from Gondor arrived yesterday. I wonder if you might know her, since you spent time in the Houses of Healing there?"

"What is her name?" asked Déoric eagerly.

"I cannot quite remember. It was one of those Elvish names they have in Gondor."

"Is she an older woman?"

"Not all that old. Less than fifty years, but not by much, I would say."

"Thank you for telling me, Master Léofred. I must get back to my work now."

oOoOo

At dusk Déoric arrived at the new infirmary out of breath and sweating in spite of the January chill. He was surprised just how much had been accomplished here. What had been an indifferent collection of storage buildings stood, whitewashed and with many windows, as a wholesome haven for the sick and injured of Edoras. He entered through the gates into a pleasant forecourt with newly planted evergreen shrubs and made for the door.

He tried to tell himself that he would be disappointed, but a stubborn hope refused to be subdued. It had to be Merilwen. She had told him one day how weary she was of the city of Mundburg. What better way for her to begin a new life than coming to Edoras?

He was greeted at the door by a local maiden and when he inquired after the healer from Gondor, he was pointed to the far end of the lofty chamber. A woman stood there with her back to him, neither tall not short, slightly plump and with a neat bun of dark hair.

"Merilwen!" he called.

The woman turned round. She had the same stature and the same dark hair flecked with grey as the healer who had saved his life, but the face was unfamiliar to him. She smiled and came towards him with her hand extended.

"You must be Déoric. The Lady Éowyn has told me that you would take an interest in this infirmary. My name is Lithôniel. Merilwen has gone to live in Ithilien."

Déoric sank down on one of the empty beds and dropped his crutches. His hands were shaking. Lithôniel placed a hand on his forehead with a worried look.

"A cup of herbal tea, I think," she said. "I shall see to it that you get one."

oOoOo

The last week of January had brought frost and a dusting of snow, but the days were bright and dry and Déoric found that if he wrapped up warmly, he could sit outside for an hour or two without getting too cold. His hands would get cold and stiff, but he was used to that by now. Dirlayn had found him an old sheepskin, which he placed on the ground to sit on, and so he sketched almost every day. There was less scribing work now that most things ran smoothly in the tracks that Léofred had set them on, and Déoric had leave to spend as much time on his artwork as he wished. Almost from day to day he could see his artistic skills increasing. It was as if they had been lying curled up and hidden inside him and were now unfolding like fern fronds in the springtime. He had taken to sketching with charcoal on a board, because the chalk on the slate was too prone to smudging. In this manner he spent his mornings, and in the afternoons he worked on the refined versions of his drawings and on copying the book in the scribe's room.

This morning was milder than the previous week had been and Déoric savoured the sunshine on his face. He sat by the river under the willow trees. Memories of kissing Fana now mingled with the memory of his vision of the shapes whenever he came to this place. He found that he could draw better here than anywhere else.

The same three horses that had inspired the revelation were now grazing on the near side of the river, not ten yards away from where Déoric was sitting. The board was on his knee, but his hand had been idle for a while, for he was watching a grey heron wading in the shallow waters. The bird moved slowly in its odd, jerky gait, poking its head forwards with every step as if the beak was pulling the rest of the body after it. Suddenly, without any kind of prelude, it was airborne. It flapped its magnificent wings and then it sailed, neck retracted and long legs dangling, skimming over the surface of the river and settling on the far bank.

"What are you doing there?"

Déoric turned and saw a child of about eight years standing on the path.

"I'm drawing the horses," he said. "Why are you all alone here?"

"My mother sent me for rosemary," replied the child and proffered a bunch of the herbs as proof. She walked across the faded grass to where Déoric sat and looked at his board.

"It's very good," she said and pointed at the sketch. "I am Fryn. What's your name?"

"Déoric. This is just a rough sketch. I'll make a better version of it later with something called a silverpoint stylus."

"Why?"

"Because the king wants me to. I'm making a book for him."

"What's that?"

Déoric looked at her with an indulgent smile. Without an uncle Himlebed, how could she know? He shifted over and patted the sheepskin beside him. She sat down gingerly and stared at him with big blue eyes.

"A book is a wonderful thing," he said. "You write words or draw pictures on sheets of parchment and then you bind them together into a little parcel and anytime you want you can open it and find the words again and look at the pictures. Our people have never had books in the past, but the king wants us to start now. They have lots and lots of them in Gondor."

"I hate Gondor," said the girl quietly.

"Why is that?"

"My father went there and he never came back. My mother says there was a great battle and he was killed."

Déoric sighed. He put the board on the ground beside him and turned to face the child. She had pulled her feet under her dress and was hugging her knees.

"I know how you feel," he said gently. "My father was a soldier and he fell not all that long ago. I miss him very much."

"I miss mine, too," whispered the girl. Her eyes were fixed on Déoric as if he could give her some kind of answer. He looked at her and was moved by her grief.

"I was at that battle in Gondor. That's where I lost my leg."

As he had expected, the distraction worked. The girl eyed the stump with unabashed curiosity.

"Did it hurt?"

"Terribly. It still hurts sometimes, all the way down to the toes."

"How can that be?"

"I don't know." Following a sudden impulse, he drew his bag towards him and began to rummage around in it.

"Do you like horses?" he asked. The child nodded silently. He pulled out a wad of rolled up parchments and began to look through them. These were drawings that he had deemed not quite good enough for the book, but some were nevertheless shapely and pleasing. He found one of a mare and her foal grazing against a backdrop of evergreen bushes.

"Here," he said and passed the parchment to the girl. "You can keep that. It's a present from me to you, because we both are fatherless and love horses."

She took the drawing with an expression of awe on her face. Then she smiled. Déoric wrapped the board in a cloth and stowed it in the bag.

"I am getting cold," he said and reached for his crutches. "Are you coming back to the city with me?"

The child nodded and put the parchment into the pocket of her pinafore. Déoric shouldered his bag and set off. Back on the road neither of them could think of anything else to say, but their silence was companionable. It was nearly noon and the sun stood barely above the snow-tipped peaks of the White Mountains. They were not far from the gates when they heard riders on the road behind them and stood aside to let them pass. Déoric looked at the marshal and saw that this was the king's éored. It seemed that they had met with trouble on their patrol, for they were carrying several wounded warriors with them. This was not unusual, since there were still scattered bands of orcs occasionally distressing the more remote villages. When the riders drew level with them, Déoric could see them more clearly and suddenly he was seized by the same numb paralysis that he had felt when he saw his own leg lying on the ground.

Blood-covered and unconscious, strapped across the saddle of his fallow horse, was a young man with reddish braids.


	9. The art of healing

The art of healing

Déoric's lungs were burning and his head felt dizzy by the time he arrived at Niarl's house. It was deserted. Only then did it occur to him that the wounded would have been brought to the new infirmary. It took him another twenty minutes to reach the place.

Niarl's mother and his father, the carpenter, sat each on either side of the bed where Niarl lay. His mother was clutching his hand and crying. To the left and right and on the opposite side of the room, other soldiers were tended to by the healers. There was a background murmur of sighs and groaning and a strong smell of camphor. Déoric found a chair and sat down at the bottom of Niarl's bed when Lithôniel appeared with a bowl of water and strips of linen. An unfamiliar scent emanated from the bowl, sweet and potent. She gestured for Niarl's father to move aside and began to dress the young man's wounds. There was a slash to the left arm and another one across the chest, the latter looking much more serious. The chief damage, however, had been done by a blow to the head. Congealed blood crusted the ginger hair.

"It is well that he is unconscious," said Lithôniel while she washed away the blood. "He will not feel the pain until it has lessened. The athelas will draw out any poison and soothe the wound."

"Will he live?" whispered Niarl's mother.

"I cannot make promises, but I see no fatal wound on him. If we can prevent an infection, he should heal well. I cannot tell you, though, how long it will take till he comes to his senses."

The parent's relief was so great and so sudden that it seemed to change the very scent of the room. Déoric noticed that he was shaking. He clenched his fists when he thought of the last time he had spoken to Niarl. Wish me luck. He had let his friend go without a greeting. It was five weeks since the king's éored had returned from the East, and Déoric had succeeded in avoiding Niarl ever since. His cheeks felt hot with shame.

At this moment he saw Ethelhelm and his older daughter enter the room. They went and spoke with a man in a bed at the far end, but after a while Fana came over. She hailed Niarl's parents politely and murmured a greeting to Déoric.

"My uncle has broken his arm," she said to Niarl's father, "but he has been well attended to and seems to be doing fine. I heard that Niarl was wounded, too."

The carpenter gestured towards the prone figure of his son, and Fana gave a small cry of compassion and took the young man's hand. Déoric looked away. He felt a strong urge to get up and leave, but he felt it impossible to desert Niarl again. So he crouched down in his chair and tried to make himself as invisible as he could. Fana didn't stay as long as he had feared. After a few minutes she turned to leave. Déoric was looking down at the floorboards, but he saw her little feet stopping in front of him. He tightened his fingers round his knee and didn't move his head, lest she should see his tears. It seemed a long while before she moved away.

"Good night, Déoric."

It was spoken so quietly that later he wasn't sure if she had said it at all.

The hours of the evening went by with little to mark their passing. Healers went about their business, quiet and gentle, and the coming and going of visitors trailed off, leaving just the nearest of kin who wouldn't be stirred from the beds of their loved ones. For Déoric there was no thought of going home. He wouldn't leave until he had seen Niarl conscious and asked his forgiveness.

Niarl's mother and father had nodded off in their armchairs. Déoric was determined to keep himself awake, which turned out to be fairly easy, because he felt a stabbing pain in his missing leg again. He moved his chair closer to the bedside, so that he could watch Niarl's face without craning his neck. It must have been well after midnight when Niarl opened his eyes.

"Mother?" he whispered.

"You mother is here, but she is sleeping," said Déoric. "Shall I wake her?"

"No, let her sleep. I'm glad to see you, Déoric. Ow, my head hurts!"

"I'm so sorry, Niarl. I'm so sorry that I didn't wish you luck or said farewell to you properly. I was so very –"

"What? Oh, never mind that, Deoric. I know it's hard for you." Niarl raised his hand, touched the bandages and winced. "Can you get me a sip of water? Or, no, wait, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Excuse me!" A young healer had appeared beside the bed, a bowl at the ready. She gave Deoric a reproachful look, while Niarl leaned to the side and vomited.

"You should have told me he had come round," she said to Deoric while she settled Niarl back into the pillows and washed his face with a flannel. The commotion had roused the carpenter, who woke his wife, and they both began to fuss over their son. Deoric quietly slipped away.

There was little moonlight, and the streets were slippery with frost. He had to step carefully to avoid a fall. A shadowy shape swooped over his head, whether it was an owl or a large bat he couldn't tell in the darkness. When he came to his house, he saw a glint of light behind the shutters. He opened the door, suddenly aware what he would find: Dirlayn, still fully dressed, with a tense face in which worry was only just giving way to relief.

"Where in all the world have you been?"

"At the infirmary. Niarl has been wounded. I'll tell you tomorrow."

He sank onto his bed and was asleep before he could take off his boot.

oOoOo

In her own bed Fana lay still awake. It had been a painful evening with Déoric turning away from her yet again. She stared into the darkness, trying to figure out what had gone wrong with her life. Give him time, Niarl had said, but how much more time did he need? It was almost a year since his return from battle. Other girls whose young men had come home were wed by now, and she knew of a few who were with child.

How glad she had been when she had heard that he was back. Distressed, too, of course, who wouldn't be – she shuddered when she thought of that stump – but glad, oh so glad that she would see him again, that he was alive, that she wouldn't be one of those unwed widows, pining for men who had never been fully theirs. She knew that their carefree life of roaming the country was over, that things would be harder now and more serious, but still, he was her Déoric. Or was he? There it was again, that thought she could never quite get out of her mind. She hadn't told Niarl what haunted her, that spectre of the other woman. It had been her first thought in that anguished moment of being sent away from his door, that someone else had stolen away his heart. But with no signs emerging for such a notion, she had rejected it after a while. Now it was creeping up on her again. Wasn't he well off now with his position at the court, with his newfound talent as an artist, with the respect of the king's advisor and even of the king himself? Wasn't she taking every opportunity to show him that she was but waiting for a word from him? What reason could he have still to shun her, unless he had broken the faith and given his heart to someone else?

Her hands clenched the blanket. How dare he! He had wooed her, he had kissed her, he was bound to her by honour! His behaviour was abominable! She gritted her teeth, surprised to find just how angry she was. Let him do whatever he wanted, she would no longer care. What good did it do to wait for him? He had abandoned her. She would stop waiting for him. She would clear her mind of him and teach her heart to think of him no more. It was the only sensible thing to do.

But she knew fine well, didn't she, that she couldn't give him up. He was her Déoric, always had been, always would be, and that was that. Any idea of banishing him from her heart, any idea of turning her eyes to another was as impossible as snow in summer. Her anger drained away like rain in the sand and all she was left with was the yearning for him that soaked her soul with sadness. With a sigh she turned over and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders, hoping that sleep would come and release her from these musings for a while.

oOoOo

Niarl returned home a week later, but Déoric soon had cause to call at the infirmary again, for Léofred fell ill with a lung fever, an unforeseen twist of events that caused much anxiety in many quarters and not the least to Déoric. He went to see the sick man almost daily; a duty he felt was his and which he undertook willingly, though with a heavy heart. It pained him to see Léofred pallid and sweating, with eyes that rarely opened. Still, whenever Déoric came, Léofred would seize the young man's outstretched hand and press it with whatever weak power he could muster. A man with no family, the king's advisor appreciated the scribe's visits greatly, and Déoric felt confident enough by now to sit by the bedside next to the king without blushing or an urge to bite his knuckle. Lithôniel devoted particular care to this patient, treating him with medicines hitherto unknown in Rohan, and after a week she pronounced a cautious hope that Léofred would recover.

"He does look better today," said Éomer one evening when he left the infirmary beside Déoric. "If he survives, we'll have to thank you for that."

"Me?" cried Déoric in surprise. "Whatever do I have to do with it?"

"Oh, everything, my dear Déoric," said the king with a smile. "Do you think there would be a fair infirmary and a wise healer from Gondor here in Edoras if you hadn't told my sister how pathetic our provisions for the sick were?"

Déoric felt the heat rising in his face. "I didn't say they were pathetic – " he began.

"Of course you didn't," interrupted the king, "you always choose your words carefully. Nevertheless you left us in no doubt about your views. There are many forms of bravery, Déoric, and among those there is one that cannot be prized highly enough, and that is the courage to tell the rulers when they are neglecting their people. Now, don't fret! Neither my sister nor I saw any insolence in your plea. The Lady Éowyn was more than ready to act on your advice, and she had been half contemplating the same thing, but her mind was occupied with other matters."

"Have you had news from her?" ventured Déoric, eager to steer the conversation into a different direction.

"Indeed I have. She and the Lord Faramir have made their home in Ithilien and they fare very well."

"Ithilien! That is where Merilwen went."

A bemused smile appeared on the king's face. "And who is Merilwen?" he asked.

"She is a healer. She saved my life, I believe."

"Then I am glad that she dwells near my sister. Now I must hurry. Good day to you, Déoric."

And the king hastened away, followed by his guards.

oOoOo

Léofred remained in the infirmary for nearly four weeks, but at long last Lithôniel pronounced him recovered. He returned to Meduseld and to his duties pale and thin, but with unshaken determination. With him he brought a sense of calm and of purpose, which settled on the place within half a day and made everyone realize just how much the kings' advisor had been missed.

The tide of the year had turned, the snow was melting and pert winds were throwing shower after shower at the city of the horse lords. Déoric's work on the book was progressing well. He had meanwhile completed nearly thirty immaculately written pages, for his speed of writing had increased and he could finish a page in the morning and still have time for drawing and his other scribing duties in the afternoon. His collection of regal portraits was growing steadily. Ethehelm's figure had served him as a model for his rendition of Thengel. He asked Hunwald the blacksmith if he could sketch him for the image of Helm Hammerhand. Wuffa the baker, a rotund and jovial man, sat for the picture of Brytta, that king famed for his generosity and good cheer. Initially Déoric placed the baker on a massive wooden box, but Léofred discovered them and walked away shaking his head. Shortly afterwards he returned with the king and Éomer insisted that they come into the hall and do it properly, as he said. So Wuffa, crimson in the face and with a drinking horn in his hand, perched on the king's seat attired in Éomer's cloak. The man wore a foolish grin out of sheer embarrassment, but that suited Déoric well, for he planned to convert it into a benign smile. Éomer and Léofred stood behind him watching him draw. Déoric hoped that they would soon get bored or called away by other duties, but it was nearly half an hour before they left at last and allowed him to continue his work with more ease.

This afternoon the weather was fine and he was sketching in the stable yard again. Over the last few weeks he had found a way to render shadows and muscle definition by shading in areas of his drawing with fine parallel strokes. Pleased with this discovery, he had decided to attempt the most crucial portrait, that of Eorl on Felaróf. Léofred had previously agreed to sit for this picture, and though he was still under orders from Lithôniel to take it easy, he had insisted that he felt quite up to sitting on a horse for an hour or so. So Wulfhere had brought out the handsome mare Willowleaf, a daughter of Shadowfax, and Léofred now sat mounted in dignity while Déoric sketched on his board.

He had finished the outlines and was just beginning to shade in the animal's head, when somebody entered the stable yard from the gates. From the corner of his eyes he saw that it was Fana. She greeted the king's advisor and then sat down on the bench beside Déoric. He felt his mouth go dry. Without moving his eyes from the drawing, he soaked up the signs of her presence, the shape of her shadow that crossed his leg, the faint smell of camomile, the stray hairs that were blown into his line of vision by the soft breeze, a fiery glow in the sunlight. His hand stopped moving.

"My father told me that you are learning a new craft," she said. "It looks like you have learned much already. Who's teaching you?"

"I'm teaching myself," said he and added a few more strokes to the horse's neck.

"You must be a good teacher," she replied, and even though he didn't look at her, he knew that she was smiling.

"How is Niarl?" he asked and continued with his sketch.

"Niarl?" She sounded surprised. "He is much better, as far as I know. His mother told my mother that he has recovered well."

"Have you not been to see him?"

"Not for a fortnight or so. I've been very busy making new trousers for the boys. Mama says they're outgrowing their clothes so quickly, she doesn't know how to keep up with them. I'll maybe go to his house tomorrow. But I thought you would have visited him more than I."

"I've been busy, too," said Déoric and decided to see Niarl that very night. If Fana was unlikely to go, there was no reason for him to stay away. It had been the dread of seeing them together that had stopped him from going. He felt a touch of pity for Niarl that Fana was so willing to neglect him on account of a sewing chore.

"That's good. Can I see some more of your drawings?"

Déoric hesitated. He couldn't decide whether he wished her to stay or to leave. Having her sit so close to him whilst knowing that she now belonged to another, and his friend at that, was a pain he could well forgo. But Léofred's words still rang in his ears. Nobody should ever say again that he acted like a child. He was going to face it like a man. From his bag he took a number of sketches and passed them to Fana. He was careful not to touch her hand. She, however, leaned even closer to him and began to look at the parchments. He felt ridiculously aware of the pressure of her arm and shoulder against his.

"I've never seen anything like this," she said after a while. "How can you make things look so lifelike?"

"It's a way of looking at things," replied Déoric, determined to conduct himself honourably. "You need to draw what you see, not what you know. For example, we know that all legs on a horse are the same length. But if you look at a horse from a certain angle, it might seem that some legs are shorter. I'm not sure why, but I think it's because things that are farther away look smaller. So if you drew a horse from a certain viewpoint and made all the legs the same length, it could look quite wrong. You need to draw some of them shorter, but you must look carefully how much shorter. Often it's just a tiny bit, like here." He pointed out one of the drawings.

"How clever," said Fana. "And you found that out all by yourself?"

"Yes, many years ago. When I was just a boy I tried to draw my mother sitting at the table. I made all the table legs the same length, and then I looked again and saw that it was wrong."

"Oh, yes, now I remember you were always drawing on your slate! Niarl used to tease you and say that you'd never make a warrior, but I thought it was a smart thing to do. I can't remember what Halol had to say on the matter."

"Probably not much." He shifted uneasily when he remembered that he still hadn't visited Halol's mother.

"No, he never was a talker, was he?" She sighed. "I'm so sad about him. Niarl said it was the worst deed of the enemy to tear the three of you apart."

Déoric suppressed an impulse to mention that Niarl had not been entirely faultless in bringing about the estrangement between them. There was no point in blaming the man. However, he felt by now that he had done his part and needn't torture himself any longer. "I must go," he said and took the parchments out of her hands.

"But you haven't finished your picture yet!"

Déoric stored his gear in the big leather bag he always carried with him now. "Yes, I have. I have other work to do in the scribe's room," he said and picked up his crutches. "Thank you so much, Master Léofred, I am done. I believe your father is in the tack room, Fana. Good day."

He made his way across the yard towards the gate, conscious that she would be looking at him and his dismal progress. Still, he felt he had done well. He had been calm and polite, he hadn't reproached her and he had spoken to her like to a friend. Léofred couldn't fault him on his conduct.


	10. A fear of fire

A fear of fire

By the beginning of March Déoric felt confident enough in his drawing skills to tackle the most crucial part of his commission, the frontispiece. He had drawn the kings, eleven out of the seventeen by now, against bare backgrounds, but for the title page he envisaged an image that covered the sheet from edge to edge. He needed to sketch a variety of motifs that would allow him to fill such a picture and to show that there was more to his country than just horses and riders.

During the course of the winter the time he spent on drawing and copying the book had increased steadily, with other scribing tasks done late in the day, way past the hour when he had previously been on his way home. There were fewer of these lists and inventories now, for he had caught up with the backlog within the first couple of months in his position, and Léofred, now quite recovered, assured him almost daily that there was little to be done. Still, Déoric suspected that the king's advisor had started to write some of the accounts himself in order to free up the young scribe for his artistic project. It was possible, of course, that the older man was simply exasperated by Déoric's weak head for numbers and found it easier to write out the sums on his own. However that might be, Déoric filled page after page with beautiful writing and vivid pictures and had meanwhile copied almost the entire text of King Elessar's book.

To find inspiration for his title page, he went down to his favourite spot by the river early in the morning and looked around, not for horses this time, but for the features of the land. No king would be the subject of the frontispiece, but the country of Rohan itself.

It was a breezy day and the new blades of grass flittered around his feet when he put down his sheepskin. The wind brought with it the scent of early spring, a stirring, vibrant smell that called to Déoric with an urgency he could not ignore. He inhaled it deeply while his eyes scanned the surroundings. There was the river with its willow trees, the long, bare branches swaying in the breeze. To both sides of the river meadows stretched out, and further to the west stood the mounds of the kings, covered in simbelmynë. The city of Edoras rose from the plain high and proud like a queen and beyond it the mountains shone white in the morning light. A pair of ducks whirred past, fast and straight as arrows. Déoric pulled his board out of his bag and began to draw. After a few hours he had filled the board, back and front, with the images that hailed him from the awakening landscape.

It took him a week to complete the frontispiece. Painstakingly he translated his charcoal sketches into the fine silverpoint lines, adding shadows and texture and detail in the process. In the background, slightly to the left of the centre, he drew the city of Edoras against the backdrop of the mountains with the tree-lined river flowing before the gates. The border was a garland of simbelmynë, with a different bird sitting in each of the four corners: a robin, a blackbird, a sparrow and a starling. The foreground, however, drew the eye and infused the picture with spirit. Déoric had copied his drawing of the rearing horse, that first unconsciously sketched image, but this time he had added shadows and highlights the way he had learned to do during his visits to the stables.

He had wondered whether it wouldn't be better to show the figure of a mounted rider, but had decided that none of the kings should be thus given preference above the others. He hoped they would each be contented, in whatever circle of the world they might dwell now, with the fine drawings he was providing for them.

The day after the frontispiece was finished, he showed it to Léofred and in the afternoon the king appeared in the scribe's room demanding to see the completed work. Déoric, less nervous in the presence of the king than he had been in the early days of his career, flourished the sheet with no small measure of pride.

"A worthy effort," said Éomer after he had carefully scrutinized the parchment, "and I am going to take the credit for discovering your talent. You are a remarkable young man, Déoric. The copy of the book, I hear from Léofred, is almost completed, too?"

"Indeed, my lord, there are a mere five pages missing."

Éomer raised his eyebrows, for the young scribe had sounded less satisfied with this announcement than one might have expected.

"You seem discontented, Déoric. Are you not pleased that your task is drawing to an end?"

Déoric held onto his right hand with his left to stop himself from biting his knuckle. He glanced at the king and then looked down at his desk.

"My lord, if I may say this: It irks me that the book is quite so thin. A mere two score pages for the five hundred years we have lived in this land. There are tales of our kings that every child in the Mark knows, but that haven't made their way to Gondor it seems. The story of Gram and the bridge over the Entwash, or the tale about the falcons of Goldwine. And there are many songs and tales that concern other persons than the kings, about the travels of Fricca the Goldenhaired and the first meeting of - "

"Do not get carried away, my dear Déoric," exclaimed Éomer. "It is a book we want and not a whole library. I agree with you, though, that what Gondor recorded is but a portion of our history. I desire therefore that you go and speak to Gléowine the minstrel and ask for his counsel. After you have listened to all he has to tell you, I give you leave to add to the book such tales as relate directly to the kings of the Mark. Dedicate at least half of every day to this task. And find out about bindings. Maybe the tanner could help you with that. You can easily complete your other duties in the remaining time, as well as finishing the last of the drawings. And there is no rush, although... "A smile flitted across his face. "...I should be pleased if the work was completed before the summer."

Déoric bowed his head to show his consent, though he was by no means sure that he could fulfil all his duties as easily as the king implied. Éomer patted him on the shoulder, wished him good luck and left the room.

oOoOo

He looks at his hand. It is strangely distorted and there seem to be more fingers than at other times, but how many there should be he cannot quite tell. The many-fingered hand picks up the stylus and draws: a hill, a rearing horse, a garland of evermind. The hill grows under his feet and he looks out across a plain of green grass rippling in the wind. From the grass spring the white flowers of the mounds, thousands of them, covering the whole land with their pale shimmer. He begins to run downhill, taking larger and larger leaps until at last he pushes off and floats over the grassy ground. He sees the rivers and woods and villages, the herds of horses on the meadows, and he swoops hither and thither, drunk with joy.

He awoke, as he so often did, from a pain in the invisible leg. For a minute or so he held his breath and gritted his teeth until the worst of the agony was over. Then he rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. The air in the house seemed stale and close after the glorious freedom of his dream. After a while, he got up and hopped across to the window. He opened the shutters and breathed in the night air.

It was the time of the new moon, and the world outside should have been steeped in darkness. Instead he saw a strange glow in the sky, as if coming from a bright light higher up in the city. He leaned out of the window but since it faced northwards, he could not see in the direction of the glow. He could, however, hear the voices, cries and shouts like from some kind of commotion.

From the peg on the wall he took his long sheepskin coat and put it on, then he grabbed his crutches and opened the door. It was cold, a chilly March night, and his bare foot recoiled from the icy ground, but he only wanted to look around the corner of the house to find out what the matter was. Three steps with his crutches got him there and then he saw it. There was a fire somewhere in the upper part of the town. No, not just somewhere: near the market place.

Déoric was halfway up the street before he realized that he really ought to go back and get his boot. But too clear was the vision in his mind of the stable master's house, that house overlooking the market place that was never quite tidy and rarely quiet. His imagination painted flames licking out of the windows and the roof, the terrified faces of the children and Fana trapped, Fana burning... He cursed himself for being so slow as he hastened up the paved streets and the flights of stairs. Would that he could run! With nothing but the shine of the fire to light his path, it wasn't easy to find his way. More than once he caught his foot on a step and at one point it splashed into the water channel that came down from the spring at the hall. Niarl, of course, would have leapt up these steps two at a time, darkness or not. But Niarl was in all likeliness asleep in his bed and so it was up to Déoric to save Fana. He could hear the voices clearer now, they sounded urgent, but not frantic. The smell of smoke was in the air and here and there sparks trundled down on him.

When at last he reached the market place he saw at once that the stable master's house stood dark and still. It was a house on the opposite side of the square that was ablaze. The were some people milling about the place aimlessly, but most folk were busy sloshing pails of water at the fire or working hand in hand with their neighbours in the bucket chain. The people of Edoras, dwellers in wooden houses, knew the dangers of fire well and were used to dealing with it swiftly.

It didn't take Déoric long to spot Fana, standing next to her mother in the bucket chain and passing on pail after pail. Even while he watched from the shadows between two houses, he saw that the people were getting the better of the fire and the flames died down.

Later on, when he returned to his house and lay in his bed shivering, he realized how foolish his visions of rescuing her had been. For he had seen himself carrying her out of the inferno in his arms as if he were a real man walking on two legs.

oOoOo

This had to be the house that Léofred had described. It stood on the corner between the main street and the alley that wound down to the smithies. A wooden fence kept the chickens and a handful of children in the little yard between the two low wings of the building. Laundry flapped gently in the wind. Déoric approached the gate and, leaning on one crutch, struggled to open it. When they saw him, the children stopped in their play and wandered over. They gaped at him as he shuffled through the gate.

"One-leg! One-leg!" shouted one, a boy of maybe seven years. A tall girl, clearly the eldest of the group, smacked the boy on the head. "Hold your tongue!" Déoric looked straight ahead as if he hadn't heard and made his way to the house. Shortly after he had knocked, a large, ruddy-faced woman opened the door.

"Good morning," he said. "I am Déoric, scribe to Éomer King. He sends me to speak to Gléowine."

"Come on in," said the woman. "Father is in the kitchen. He doesn't move far from the fire these days. His joints give him trouble, you know, especially in this weather. He didn't do too badly up until the summertime, but then he took a turn for the worse. Too much rain this week, he can hardly stir. Last week was fair, of course, and he felt the better for it, but this week it's just terrible … "

In this manner she chattered on while she led him into a rather messy but comfortable kitchen. There were bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, a pot of stew bubbling on the hearth and rag dolls and building bricks scattered all over the floor. In an armchair by the fireplace sat, wrapped in a blanket, the old minstrel.

"This young man has come to visit you, Father," said the woman cheerfully. "His name is Déoric. Éomer King sends him. Pull up a chair, Déoric. I'll leave you two alone, for I have errands in the market."

With this she bustled out and closed the door. Déoric smiled at the old man. Gléowine's beard was still yellow, but his braids were almost white. His figure was tall and gaunt and his face deeply wrinkled. He stroked a ginger cat which was curled up on his lap. Keen blue eyes looked at the visitor.

"Well, well," he said after Déoric had settled. "Young Éomer sends you? How is he conducting himself as king, you think?"

"I believe he is doing very well, Master Gléowine. People speak highly of him. You must have heard of the new House of Healing he has established."

"I have." Gléowine tickled the cat's chin. "A fine deed for a king in peaceful times. Whether it will sound good in a song is another matter."

"Oh, but he did fight valiantly for so many years! There is no reason to sneer at him."

"Indeed, indeed," replied Gléowine. "I am but teasing, young man. I know Éomer's worth fine well. What did he send you here for?"

"The king has plans to increase the honour of the Mark. He has seen the libraries of Gondor and now it irks him that we are known as a people without books. So he has given me a commission to copy a book he has borrowed from the King of Gondor about the history of our people. He wants it to be a thing we can be proud of. But the book from Gondor only tells a part of our stories, and there is much more in our lore that would be fit to be written down. Therefore the king asks that you would tell me such songs and tales as relate to the kings of old, so they could be added to the book."

Slowly, Gléowine shook his head. "I do not hold with this writing down business," he said. "It weakens the brain, it does. Once you have something down on parchment, your head thinks it might as well forget it. A minstrel keeps his memory sharp and he knows all his tales and songs by heart. What would he need to write them down for? I shall not give you any of my songs so that you can kill their spirit on your parchments."

The king commands it, Déoric wanted to say, but he thought better of it. There was no way to order about one as wise and dignified as the old minstrel. Instead he slipped his leather bag off his shoulders and opened it. He pulled out the contents and began to shuffle through the parchments. Something had prompted him this afternoon to bring all his completed work with him.

"Did you know that Éomer King hasn't found a new minstrel yet?" he said and casually put the sheet with the frontispiece on top of the pile.

"That is nothing to me," replied Gléowine. "My master is dead and buried. Let young Éomer see to his own affairs. My work is done."

"That is true, Master Gléowine," said Déoric. He placed his pile of parchments on the floor and as if by chance turned it so that the minstrel could see the frontispiece the right way up. The old man leaned forward and looked.

"I know nothing of the lore and whether it required you to train up a new minstrel," continued Déoric. "But I am sure nobody would make such demands on an old man like you. And if the songs and tales of our people should be forgotten in times to come, why should you care? Your work, as you say, is done. I heard it was a very fine song that you made for the funeral of the king."

There was no answer from Gléowine, but Déoric could see that the old man was eying his parchments with keen curiosity.

"Since you won't tell me your stories, let me tell one to you," said Déoric. "It is a story I heard when I was in Gondor. A very long time ago, far, far down in the South and West there lived a people in a beautiful city by a lake. Their houses were built from shiny white stone and surrounded by flourishing gardens. They covered their tables with fine cloths and ate from plates of gold and silver. Every man, woman and child was clothed in garments as bright as the rainbow. They rejoiced in everything beautiful, but most of all they excelled in song. From morning till nightfall their city was filled with clear voices, and their melodies were so lovely that the birds stopped their own songs and perched on the balconies to listen.

Among this people of singers there was one even more accomplished than the others. He was both a singer and a great poet and he invented words to the well-known tunes so beautiful they made people cry with joy. His name was Baruma. Every evening Baruma would sit down in his bower and carefully write down the words of the songs he had made that day. It was a thick book and he kept it locked up in a box made of silver and set with pearls, for he was a rich man, whose talents had won him wealth and renown.

One night, after Baruma had locked away his book, he stood by his window and looked out on the lake. And behold, there was a great uproar in the waters from a creature of the depth that rose in the middle of the lake, and it spread its wings, which were dark as the night and came and consumed the fair city with flame. And his coming was followed by a mighty wave that washed through the streets and so all the folk perished and Baruma with them.

Many hundred years later a king from the West came to the shore of the lake with his escort, and they found the ruins of the city that had been there. And they wept that such fair dwellings had been destroyed and deserted, but there among the rubble they found a silver box and when they forced it open, behold, there was the book that Baruma had written. So the king read the poems of Baruma and he was glad, for here was such beauty of words as he had never seen before. Thus it was that while all had perished, the words of Baruma survived and are sung to this very day."

While Déoric had talked, Gléowine had stretched out his arm and picked up the parchments. The ones filled with writing he flicked through, being unable to read, but on the pictures he dwelt with great interest. When Déoric had finished, Gléowine placed the pile of parchments on his lap and looked at the young man.

"I thank you for your story, Déoric," he said. "You have given me something to think about. But I am an old man and I cannot change my mind quickly. I ask that you would leave me now and come back tomorrow at the same hour. Then we can talk some more."

"As you wish, Master Gléowine," said Déoric. He rose from his chair, but when he held out his hand to take his parchments, the minstrel shook his head.

"Leave these with me," he said.

Déoric hesitated. He felt a strong desire to insist, even to snatch the parchments out of the old man's hands. What made him relent and take his leave without them, he hardly knew himself. On his way home through the darkening streets he tried to convince himself that he hadn't really lied. He hadn't said it was a true story, had he? However, he had claimed that he had heard it in Gondor, this wonderful story that was so eminently suited to making his point. He wanted to believe that there was nothing wrong with making up a new story, but he knew in his heart that he was a liar and that it would serve him right should Gléowine decide to cast his parchments into the fire.


	11. The wisdom of the minstrel

The Wisdom of the Minstrel

Déoric spent an uncomfortable night. In his restless sleep images of the burning house mingled with visions of his work being consumed by fire. He kept waking, even though for once he wasn't troubled by the ghost of his left leg. His mother, on seeing his face in the morning, asked for the cause of his distress, but he would not speak of it.

In the scribe's room, the book lay open at the page he had last copied. Déoric covered it with a cloth. He had a few minor scribing tasks to fulfil, and then he sat at the desk and stared at an empty piece of parchment. His head hurt and he was so tired that his eyes kept drooping. He lifted the cloth and made a half-hearted attempt at copying another page, but before he had even finished the first line he became aware that his hand was trembling. Léofred came and asked how he had fared with Gléowine, and Déoric gave as evasive an answer as he could. At last the afternoon drew to a close and the hour neared when he was expected at the old minstrel's house.

The children were in the yard again, busy with some noisy game, and again he paid them no heed. Gléowine's feisty daughter bade him in, but this time she led him not into the kitchen, but into a small parlour. The armchair had been brought through into this room and stood by the crackling fire. With more faith than sense, Déoric had hoped to find the old man sitting with the parchments on his knees, but that space was once more occupied by the ginger cat. There was no sign of his work anywhere else in the room. He sat down and braced himself for the inevitable.

"So, young Déoric," began Gléowine. "You are Féadred's son, I hear. A good man he was, your father, good horseman and even better story teller. But you will not ride, Déoric. Where was it you left your leg?"

"On the Pelennor," said Déoric, and for the first time he felt that the leg didn't matter so much, if only he could get his parchments back.

Gléowine stroked his beard with slow, deliberate movements.

"So, here you are, Déoric. A young man who cannot ride, but who can draw a horse like none I have ever seen. This book means a lot to you, does it?"

He lifted the cat off his lap and stood up. Déoric nodded but dared not look up. From the corner of his eye he saw the old man shuffling across the room and opening a chest.

"I asked my daughter to put your parchments away," Gléowine said. "I did not want the children to get their hands on them and spoil them. Last night I had a good look at your drawings. They are very good. You will be glad to have them back, eh?"

Déoric wanted to jump up and seize his work, but he realized suddenly that Gléowine had been putting him to the test. So he bit his knuckle and remained on his chair until the old man had shuffled back and thrust the parchments into his hands. Only then did he press them to his chest. Gléowine chuckled.

"I was flattered that you trusted me enough to leave them in my care, my lad. But it seems you have had a change of heart over night. Was it a bad conscience that made you think I would destroy your work?"

Déoric felt his cheek flushing with shame.

"I am sorry, Master Gléowine, that I tried to deceive you," he whispered.

"And so you should be," said Gléowine. "The next time you make up a story, pay some attention to what you are saying. Far to the South and West? There is nothing but water there, son, the wide, wide ocean. Well, well, it was a good story otherwise, and you have made your point. You seem to have inherited your father's talent. And you did make me think. I have to thank you for that."

Déoric raised his head at last.

"Then you are not angry with me?"

The old minstrel laughed.

"Angry? Why would I be angry?"

"Because I lied to you."

Gléowine smiled and stroked his beard again.

"That is a nasty word, lie. Are you sure you lied? What were you telling me? That I am just one man and will die like all other men before me, and sooner rather than later? That I would be a fool to let my songs and tales die with me, if there was a way to keep them alive for generations to come? That our realms come and go, but the written word outlasts the centuries? Was that not the truth, Déoric son of Féadred?"

"Yes, but – "

"And no less so, because you chose to clothe it in words that are pleasing and catch the imagination? I am no fool, Déoric, and you are no liar. I can see very clearly what you are, even if you cannot. Éomer King wishes this book to be written? Well, I can imagine that he does. He does not want to be outdone by his friend, the king of Gondor, if I am not mistaken. But let me tell you, I would say no to his face. He would not dare force an old man like me against my will.

You, Déoric, are another matter altogether. You are willing to pour your heart's blood into this book. You have it in you to make it a thing to be proud of. And you need it. You need it so your life can go on. Is that not so?"

"Yes, Master Gléowine," Déoric whispered.

"But you are thinking to yourself, here sits the old man, he is set in his ways and he will thwart me and will stick to his beliefs, outdated as they may be, for that is how old people are. Am I right?"

Déoric didn't know how to reply to this, so he only lowered his head and waited for the minstrel to continue. Gléowine chuckled.

"But some old people, you must know, Déoric, take delight in surprising the younger ones. It is a way to prove to ourselves that we are still alive. The whole world is changing. Why should I not change my mind? Why should I not listen to a plea as beautifully worded as yours? My limbs want to sit by the fire day in day out, but my mind moves where it will. Hear my words then, Déoric son of Féadred. I shall not send you away empty-handed. For every king of the Mark, from Eorl the Young to Théoden King, I have made a song. They are the work of a lifetime. Write them into your book and let me see them saved for my great-grandchildren. But you must prove that you can perform at least part of the minstrel's art. My songs are not for dictation. You must learn them by heart, before you write them down. I will recite them to you, but you are not allowed to write anything in this house. We will start with the song I made for Théoden King. Listen carefully."

And Déoric listened to the minstrel's clear, sonorous voice reciting a song of stark beauty that evoked images of ages past, of centuries rolling into one and culminating in that one glorious ride to the battlefield of Gondor.

Out of doubt, out of dark, to the day's rising

He rode singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.

Hope he rekindled, and in hope ended;

Over death, over dread, over doom lifted

Out of loss, out of life, unto long glory. *

oOoOo

Day after day Déoric visited Gléowine, and after a while the children began to greet him and sometimes the cat waited for him by the door. Every afternoon, when he returned to the scribe's room, he recalled what he had heard in the morning and wrote it down before the words faded from his mind. His memory was less potent than he had hoped and more than once he had to ask the old man to recite again the song of the previous day. Then Gléowine chuckled and teased him that the scribe's craft had eaten his brains away, but without fail he would repeat his songs as often as Déoric needed to hear them.

It didn't take a fortnight before Déoric noticed how fond he had grown of the old man. When Gléowine was too ill to receive him for a few days, Déoric sat in the scribe's room and gloomily shuffled through his parchments. He had meanwhile copied the entire book and completed all but two of the royal portraits, missing only Folcwine and Aldor the Old. That gave him an idea. As soon as Gléowine was recovered, Déoric asked him if he would sit for the picture of the ancient king. The old minstrel was flattered to no small degree and arranged his braids and clothes carefully for the occasion.

Few pages were left to write now. Guntram the tanner, it had turned out, knew as little of binding as Deoric did. Hiltibrant had only ever written inventories and accounts, which were rolled up or stacked in boxes. So a letter was dispatched to Aldburg with urgent questions to Himlebed. Within the week the reply came, written in tiny letters on the back of the parchment. Deoric and Guntram pored over it, debating the thread, the leather, the comparative merits of wood or bone for the toggles. "I can do it," said Guntram, "leave it to me."

And so Deoric returned again to that house at the corner of two streets, went across the yard ducking under the washing line and into the parlour where the old minstrel sat by the fire. "Sing me again of Brego," he would say, "tell me again of Gram." And Gléowine sang, while Deoric listened, soaking up the words like the meadows soaked up the April showers.

oOoOo

The full force of spring was now unfolding in the land. The grass was lush and green and glittered in the sunshine after each tender shower of rain. The snow melted in the mountains and the river came down the slopes with a mighty roar and sprays of white. Outside the gates, where it poured into the plain, the willow trees were in leaf again and all over the city, wherever there was a patch of grass, a tree or a backyard full of shrubs, the spring green shone brightly with a vigour that suffered nothing dead. Everything with roots was rising, spreading, opening, and everything on legs was breathing with renewed strength. Even Dirlayn's tiny garden was filled with the scent of fresh growth. She had milked her cow, seen to her chickens and then spent most of the morning tending her herbs, which were already having to fight against the hardy weeds, and she had enjoyed the sunshine warming her neck and the twittering of the swallows, which were diving into and out of their nests under the eaves of the house. With reluctance she had come back inside, but there were certain things she needed to do if she wanted to have a stew ready for Déoric and herself in the evening. She was just pouring the milk from the bucket into a jug and setting it on the table when she heard a knock at the door. Before she could reach it, the door opened and Fana poked in her head.

"Dirlayn? Can I come and talk with you?"

"Sure, come in," said Dirlayn and offered her a chair. "How is your mother? Are the boys keeping her on her toes?"

"My mother is well, thank you. The boys are much calmer now that father is taking them to the stables most days."

Fana sat down, leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. Dirlayn seated herself on the other chair and wiped her hands on her apron. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other, but then Fana looked away out of the window. She rubbed the back of her hand with the palm of the other.

"Dirlayn," she began. "I'm sure you know why I've come to you. I … I am so unhappy about Déoric; I don't know what to do any more. Niarl said I had to give him time, but I've waited and waited and waited and nothing has changed. I don't understand, that is, unless… please tell me, does Déoric have a sweetheart in Gondor he is pining for?"

The older woman raised her eyebrows.

"Whatever makes you think that?"

"Oh, they say that when the healer came from Mundburg, he was expecting someone else."

"He was," said Dirlayn kindly. "He was expecting an older woman, who had tended him in the Houses of Healing and who had been like a mother to him. Déoric had much hoped to see her again. Her name is Merilwen, and he thinks of her with respect and gratitude, for he believes he would not have lived, had it not been for her care. Ask him about her, and he will tell you how wonderful the Houses of Healing are."

"But Déoric doesn't tell me anything these days, and you know that," said Fana quietly. She sighed. "I know there haven't been any promises between us, not with the war going on and all, but I had always thought it was understood... that is, there seemed to be no doubt ... everyone was assuming..."

She twirled one of her braids around a finger. Dirlayn looked at her sitting on the edge of the seat, small, forlorn, and her heart went out to the girl. She drew over her own chair and put her arm around the younger woman's shoulders. As if this gesture had cracked the eggshell of her restraint, Fana began to sob. Dirlayn pulled her closer and stroked her hair.

"Don't cry, dear. I'm glad you've come to me. You and I, we need to set things to right. He's being such a fool, that boy. I've tried to tell him he should go and speak to you, but he will not heed me. He has got it into his head, I know not how, that you won't want him anymore now he's a cripple."

Fana looked up at her and when she blinked, two tears rolled down her cheeks.

"But it's only a leg. Why should I mind that?"

"Oh, come now, Fana, can you really not see how that irks him? Can you not remember how proudly he rode out, expecting to return with honour and with booty to lay at your feet? The dreams he must have had about riding into the city with all the glow of victory? Instead they brought him back on a cart. Do you not see how his whole world was shattered? It would be a grievous loss for anybody, but to a soldier, a rider of the Mark - he will never ride in the king's guard now and he thought at first that was the end of his life."

"Oh, I know that," said Fana and sniffled. "I know that he was hurt and angry and desperate. But why would he not let me comfort him? And now, now that all is going so well for him, why does he still avoid me?"

"Men have strange notions sometimes, Fana. The young men in particular think that you girls want a hero. I remember Féadred, when we were courting, he was forever telling me about the deeds of his sword, and he didn't see that while I loved to hear his voice, I would rather have had him tell a story. He was a good storyteller, but he didn't think that would impress me. Déoric is the same. He must have thought that victory in battle would earn him your heart."

"But it was already his. How could he not know that?" She wiped her face with the back of her hand and pulled something out of her pocket.

"He gave me this," she said and handed Dirlayn a jagged stone. In its sandy surface was imprinted the spiral shape of a creature long dead. "He found it one day when we were climbing in the mountains. We were always together, walking, climbing, running ... oh - "

She broke off and hid her face in her hands. "What a fool I have been."

"There now," said Dirlayn and stroked the girl's hair again. "Not as much of a fool as he is. But do you see now why he doesn't like to be reminded of those times you've had together?"

Fana nodded and rubbed her eyes some more. "But what shall I do?" she said miserably.

Dirlayn sighed and stood up. She walked towards the window and looked out on the plain. A gentle wind had picked up and tousled the willow trees by the river.

"He pines for you, Fana, I am sure of it. It's his stupid pride that keeps him away from you. If he could but set that aside for one moment, he would be at your house before you could wink, and I don't have to tell you that nothing would please me more than seeing the two of you together. But he can be so stubborn, that lad, and I fear if you just keep waiting, you might wait forever. He doesn't know how to make the first step or how to swallow his pride. Do you think you could?"

She turned back towards the room and looked at Fana with a silent plea in her eyes.

"Oh, you know me," said the girl. "I'm not a proud one. I only want him back. I thought I had made the first step quite a few times, but he always withdrew and turned away from me. That's why I started to think he had found somebody else. Are you quite certain he hasn't?"

"I'm sure I would know if he had," replied Dirlayn. "He talks to me, always has since he was little, and he told me so much about his time away. If he had lost his heart there, he would not keep it secret from me. No, Fana, it is you he cares about, just like he has ever since that summer when you danced together at the fair and you had your blue frock on. Can you make him see that this leg of his has nothing to do with how you feel about him?"

"I don't know. I will try." She rose and smoothed her hair. "I'd better go now."

"Stay and wait till he comes home."

"No. No, I'd rather not see him just now. I need to think things over a bit."

"Don't think for too long," said Dirlayn. "It pains me to see you both so unhappy, and no need for it. The sooner you can get him to his senses, the better."

Fana smiled, just a little.

"I hope you are right. Thank you for your kindness, Dirlayn."

When the girl had left, Dirlayn sank down on her chair and took the jug into her hands. She moved it here and there around the table, then she opened one of her tresses and braided it again. Eventually she got up and went into the kitchen to see to the stew.

oOoOo

By the end of April Déoric had heard and recorded all but one of the seventeen songs Gléowine had promised to teach him. Since their time of working together was drawing to an end, he prepared a present for the old man, not as a parting gift, for he had every intention to keep visiting him from time to time, but as a token of gratitude. Therefore he made a careful copy of the picture of Aldor the Old, for which Gléowine had served him as a model.

It was a wet morning with low hanging clouds and rain dripping off the eaves of every house, but Déoric approached the minstrel's house with good cheer, because he looked forward to seeing the old man's pleasure when he received his gift.

Gléowine sat by the fire as usual, a fur blanket on his knees and the inevitable ginger cat by his side. A chair was already waiting for Déoric and he settled in it, preparing to chat for a while before the work began, as was their custom. When Gléowine had finished lamenting the state of the weather, Déoric opened his bag and took out the parchment.

"This is for you, Master Gléowine, as a token of thanks for what you have given me."

The minstrel reached out and took the gift. A smile illuminated his face when he looked at it.

"Well, Déoric, you are hard to match in courtesy! What shall become of my modesty, when I see myself in the image of a king, I wonder?"

"I thought you would like to have this," said Déoric.

"And so I do," replied Gléowine. "I thank you. You're a good lad, Déoric, and we should all be grateful that you were one of those that came home."

Déoric's face clouded over. He sighed and stared into the fire for a while.

"Sometimes I feel like I haven't really come home," he said, "as if there is something I am still waiting for."

Gléowine stroked his beard. The ginger cat slunk over to Déoric's chair and sat on its haunches, the tip of its tail flicking back and forth.

"Do you have a sweetheart, Déoric?" asked the old man suddenly.

"Not anymore."

He tried to make his voice seem indifferent, but didn't quite succeed.

"Who was she?" asked Gléowine.

"Elfanhild, the stable master's daughter, whom most people call Fana."

"And what happened?"

Déoric sighed again and looked down at his foot.

"Ah," said Gléowine. "She wanted a rider and not a scribe."

"I don't know. I didn't wait to find out."

The old man raised his eyebrows and leaned forward.

"You rejected her, so she could not reject you?"

Déoric didn't reply. He bit his knuckle. The cat watched him in silent vigilance.

"What did she say?"

Déoric shrugged.

"Did you speak to her at all since it happened?" asked Gléowine .

"Not much. She came to my house a few times after I first came back, but I asked my mother to send her away. I've happened upon her in the town sometimes, though I've tried to avoid her as much as I could. One day she came up to the stable yard when I was sketching there and we talked about drawing. But I didn't stay long. I couldn't … I couldn't bear to have her see me like this."

"Hmm." Gléowine settled back in his armchair and stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"But if you finished your book," he said eventually, "you would maybe find the courage to look at her again?"

Déoric shook his head.

"She walks in the meadows with my friend Niarl now."

Having watched him for long enough, the cat suddenly leapt onto Déoric's thigh, rubbed her head against his arm and started to purr. His hand began to stroke her, enjoying the touch of the soft, silky fur. Gléowine got up and put another log into the fire. A pungent smell filled the room.

"Well, Déoric," he said, "I will tell you this much: You are not a liar, but you are a fool. Since when do the women of the Eorlingas shun their injured warriors? Since when do our young men turn away their sweethearts at the door and abandon them without a word? Do not pretend that you are the helpless victim of a cruel fate. It is not your missing leg that has lost you your girl, but your stubborn head!"

Déoric hugged the cat and watched the sparks flying from the fireplace. The sudden accusation had taken him by surprise. He wanted to protest, but his moment of anger was fleeting and quickly followed by an uncomfortable feeling that the old man might have spoken the truth. He cleared his throat.

"Even if you were right, Master Gléowine, it's too late now."

The old man returned to his chair and slumped down heavily.

"And this Niarl is your friend?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Déoric with a hint of defiance." The best friend I've ever had save one, who didn't return from the battle at Mundburg."

Gléowine shook his head.

"I do not understand you young people these days. Your best friend takes your girl away from you, and you continue to call him friend? I tell you, if Swidhelm had ever tried to sweet-talk my Ebba, I would have had some things to say to him!"

"It wasn't like that. And I have no right to complain, because I did wrong by him first."

"Oh, did you now?"

"Yes," said Déoric and blushed with shame. "I promised him to go on an arduous errand with him, and then I didn't, because I was angry." He paused, hugged the cat again and then continued: "I've been angry a lot, and sometimes I've taken it out on those who least deserved it. I've just felt so hard done by..."

Whether it was the old man's quizzical look or the purring of the cat or something else, Déoric didn't know, but he felt to his embarrassment that his eyes welled up with tears. Gléowine's mouth twitched as if he had seen something amusing that had quite escaped Déoric's notice.

"So, this is how it is then? You have made a mess of things and now you do not know how to set matters right again. And you feel sorry for yourself, because you blame it all on the leg and not on your obstinacy. Ah, poor you! It is so very convenient, is it not? If anything goes wrong in your life, well, it is the leg's fault, so you do not have to ask yourself what you might have done wrong. A fine muddle you have got yourself into. What are you going to do now?"

Déoric quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"I don't know," he said miserably. "What is your advice, Master Gléowine?"

The minstrel chuckled.

"My advice, since you are asking for it," he said, "is that you complete your work on the book and on your drawings. It is the one thing you have got right. Stick to that and see how it will all turn out. If you should find, by and by, that there are people to whom you owe an apology, well, try not to be too pig-headed about it. Now listen to the song I shall sing about Folcwine King."

He leaned back and with his eyes closed began to recite:

"Proud leader of a proud and powerful people

War he waged in the west with mighty hand

Drove to despair Dunland's dark enemies

Restored the rich and rolling pastures of the Riddermark

But sorrow came, when south his sons were riding

With ardent aim to come to Gondor's aid..."

* * *

*ROTK, Many Partings


	12. Mending and binding

Mending and Binding

It was the day of rest, but Déoric went up to the hall regardless. He opened the shutters to let in the April sun and settled down at his desk, parchment and stylus ready. By now he could draw with ease and confidence. He had sketched so many figures during the last four months that he could see the pictures on the pages before he even drew the first line. This one, however, would be different.

This one he would have to draw from memory, but that daunted him not. It was a face he knew so well, a face he saw so clearly in his mind's eye that the image would flow through his hand as easily as if the subject had been in front of him. What troubled him, though, were the tears. For a while he wiped them off before they clouded his vision too much, but they kept coming, ever more of them, until he put the stylus aside and leaned back in his chair to let his grief run its course. Thus he cried, not for himself, but for another, a sadness that was tainted by no anger or bitterness, a pure, innocent expression of sorrow.

These tears had been long in the making and therefore took long to drain. Noontime was approaching when at last Déoric picked up his stylus again and began to draw. All afternoon he sat bent over the parchment and barely looked up until he was satisfied with the image he had created. He rolled it up and fastened the scroll with a ribbon. Then he left the hall and made his way to the house he had owed a visit for so long.

The woman who opened the door looked older than her years; her hair had gone grey over the summer. "Déoric," she said and seemed both bewildered and pleased. She stepped aside and gestured for him to come in.

It was a quiet house, small and neat, not unlike Déoric's own home and the woman not unlike his mother in bearing and manner. But your mother's son came back, whispered the voice in his mind. He cast down his eyes and sat on the chair she indicated.

"Sigrun," he said without looking up, "I have come to ask your forgiveness. It has been cowardly of me to shun you and not to offer my condolences. There is nothing to justify my behaviour; it was done for no other reason than a selfish desire not to face my own grief. Please forgive me. You must have been very lonely."

She had not sat down yet, but she did so now and with a sigh she placed her folded hands in her lap.

"I have my daughters," she said. "They visit whenever they can. And Niarl comes quite often. I did not blame you for staying away, because I knew you had your own trouble."

Déoric shook his head.

"My trouble is nothing. Nobody came back unscathed. You don't need to make excuses for me. I should have been here the night when Niarl told you. I meant to, but I quarrelled with him in the tavern and so I never came."

"You have come now," said Sigrun, "and I am gladdened to see you. I have watched you sometimes from afar and for a while I was worried that your spirit was withering away. But when I saw you last, you carried your head high. Niarl told me that you are doing well as a scribe at the Hall."

"Yes, I am well now. I made this for you," said Déoric. He got up and handed her the scroll. She took it and opened it. When she saw what it was, a gasp escaped her lips. She rose and embraced him and then she wept. He held her gently while his own tears began to flow again. Thus they stood for a long while. At last Sigrun's tears were spent and she urged Déoric to return to his seat. "For standing must be hard for you," she said. Then she looked again at the parchment and shook her head in disbelief.

"It is so like him," she whispered, "so very much like him. How can I ever thank you enough?"

"Don't thank me," replied Déoric. "Consider it my penance for neglecting you."

"I will not have you speak of penance!"

"Well, think of it then as the token of my friendship with him. I must go now, my mother will be waiting. I will come to see you again soon."

"You will always be welcome in this house," said Sigrun.

oOoOo

Nobody witnessed the swan approaching. The wide, curved wings flapped slowly and then he sailed, feet and neck stretched out. He seemed too big, too heavy a bird to be carried by the air, and yet he came down in a smooth, slow descent. Just above the surface of the river, he tilted his wings and moved his feet forward, then he skidded along the water trailing two white lines of spray behind. Moments later he folded up his wings and swam into the cluster of reeds as if he had never flown at all.

oOoOo

Guntram and Déoric spent almost an entire week working on the binding. Cutting all sheets of parchment to an even size took them the best part of the first day. It was even more laborious to place five holes along the left hand margin of every page with the help of a wooden template. These holes were for the toggles that would hold the book together. They had decided to use bone toggles, since their pale colour would complement the soft green goat leather they had chosen for the cover. Guntram's son Brecc, a lad of thirteen years, helped them to whittle the toggles and carve decorative patterns into the heads.

"So what's this book for?" asked the boy while he incised fine lines into the bone toggle he was working on. "Most people in the Riddermark cannot read."

"It's for the king, silly lad," said Guntram. "The lords can read, and they're not making this kind of thing for the likes of us."

Déoric shook his head. "No, I think it is for all of us, whether we can read or not. The king said it was something to be proud of. And we should be proud, not just of our past, but also of the fact that we can make such a thing, even though we have not the learning and the skills of Gondor."

"Why would we want to compete with Gondor?" said Guntram. He coated a toggle in chalk powder and inserted it into one of the holes to check its fit.

"Not compete, but … how shall I put it … they have things we should strive for, I suppose. Just think of the new infirmary. Even more, though, I look at it as a kind of sign. The world will be more peaceful now than our people have ever known it. Many will be freed from the service of the sword and be able to put their hands and minds to things of beauty and wisdom. This book will mark the beginning of a new age in our history."

"Well, it looks like one person is proud of it already," said Guntram with a smile. Déoric shrugged and picked up Himlebed's letter again to check the details of how to fit the toggles.

"I'd like to be able to read," said Brecc.

"I'll teach you," replied Déoric, "if your father doesn't mind."

Guntram frowned. "You've got a trade to learn, lad," he said. Then he looked at Déoric. "Mind you, it's a skill that might come in useful sometimes. As long as you do all your work, I'll give you leave to learn the letters."

"We can start tonight," said Déoric. "I have my wax tablet in my bag. Though maybe you would rather come to my house for your lessons?" He considered that he didn't want to endure the odour of the tanner's workshop for longer than necessary. Guntram agreed and late that afternoon Déoric sat at Dirlayn's table with Brecc and explained how the letters and the sounds fitted together. The lad was confused at the start, but he soon began to understand and before he left for home he proudly scratched his name into Déoric's wax tablet.

The next evening Déoric arrived at the hall with the book in his bag, his shoulder sore where the strap cut into his flesh with the sheer weight of the tome. The great room was filled with voices. Fine folk were gathered at a long table for some kind of feast. Déoric saw Erkenbrand of the Westfold and the king in high spirits, raising their drinking horns. He sneaked past the banqueting nobles behind the pillars. In his scribe's room he took out the book and placed it on the desk next to the Gondorian tome. Both were an equal size, about three hands wide and four high, but he noted to his satisfaction that the new book was almost twice as thick. Though there was no matching the craftsmanship of the Gondorian binding, with its gold letters and the embossed patterns along the spine, the cover of the new book looked durable and handsome enough. The bone strips that held the binding in place were not entirely even, but Déoric had done his best to carve them with what resembled a motif of simbelmynë. All along the top strip sat the raised pattern of the toggles with their tiny wedges. He ran his hands over the book and felt the soft leather and the smooth, cold heads of the studs that they had used to tack the cover to a thin wooden board. With a tender movement he brushed off the last trace of the fine ash with which they had sanded the holes for the toggle heads. The book smelled strongly of the leather and the dye and when he opened it gently it creaked and rustled. And then there was the frontispiece. The Gondorian book had no illustrations at all, but the new book welcomed the reader with this fine picture and continued to delight the eye all the way through with the images of the kings that Déoric had made. He leafed through it, page after page of letters and pictures his hand had created. When he came to the end, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He knew there was no way he could make this moment last, but he meant to savour it fully before it slipped away. No matter what would happen to his life, he would always have the memory of having made such a beautiful thing.

That gave him an idea. He picked up a quill and reached for his ink bottle. At the bottom of the last page he wrote in his even letters:

Déoric, son of Féadred, made this

After a moment's thought he added:

By the desire of Éomer King.

III 3020

He sat for another while, watching the ink dry while the light in the room faded. Then he pulled a cloth over both books and went home. In the morning he would present his handiwork to the king.

oOoOo

It was still early and Déoric had only just settled by his desk when the king came into his room, followed by Léofred. Éomer seemed in high spirits again and flung himself into a chair as casually as if he were a common soldier.

"Let's see your wondrous book then, Déoric," he demanded. Léofred handed him the tome and the king began to leaf through it with the older man looking over his shoulder. After a mere five minutes, he closed the book and placed it back on the desk.

"You have not disappointed me, Déoric," he said." It is very good. We can talk about it some more another day. For the moment I have other matters to attend to. You will rest from your labours now. I don't want to see you up here for a week."

Without another word he rose and left. Déoric sat at his desk and stared at the book.

"What are you waiting for, Déoric?" said Léofred. "You've been given a holiday. Away with you and enjoy yourself!"

A holiday! He had been working so much for so long that he hardly knew what to do with a holiday. A week wasn't long enough to visit Himlebed and Aedilhild. He could help Dirlayn in the house and garden, of course. Visit Gléowine, visit Sigrun. Spend more time teaching Brecc his letters. The king's guard was in Edoras, so he could see Niarl. He had begun to go to the tavern with his friend again like he used to. They spoke about battles and horses and even about drawing, but never about Fana. If their friendship was less cordial than it used to be, neither of them admitted it.

Fana! He'd heard talk in the neighbourhood that she was laid up in bed with a nasty cold and he briefly wondered if he should visit her. It would be the decent thing to do, he knew. But he wasn't sure if he would still be welcome in that house. Well, there would be enough other things to do. He picked up his crutches and left the scribe's room.

oOoOo

Mirrors weren't things that Éomer consulted on a regular basis, but currently he peered into a looking glass very earnestly. He had bathed this very morning, had his beard trimmed by a page boy and had dressed with more care than he was used to employ. His nails were clean and neat and his hair was shining. He was passably handsome, he decided, but still it was evident from the scar on his brow and the calluses on his hands that he was first and foremost a warrior. He tried to smooth his eyebrows with a finger.

On a small table by his bedside lay a pile of letters. He picked up the topmost and skimmed over it again.

"… cannot begin to tell you how keen I am to see your beautiful country with my own eyes at last. Your latest description of the great plain with its fresh green grass has made me yearn for a ride in such a wide and open country. The springtime in Rohan must be a wonderful thing.

I laughed very much at your account of the incident with the pigs in the market. What a commotion! The poor man seemed to have been greatly inconvenienced, though, and I was glad to read that you took the trouble to set things right for him. It was a sign of consideration well worthy of you!

Only a few weeks remain now until we shall meet each other eye to eye. I sincerely hope that you will not be disappointed in me. As I said before, my claims to beauty are not as great as I might wish, but with respect to manner, bearing and education I believe I can satisfy the usual standards. However, these seem idle considerations, when the real question will be how well our hearts and minds are suited to each other's. I think we need not fear. Given the warmth and vivacity of our correspondence, I have every confidence that we will find much pleasure in each other's company.

My father tells me that we will travel …"

A knock on the door interrupted him. It was Léofred.

"My lord? They have passed the gates and will be here in a few minutes. Are you ready?"

"As ready as I will ever be, Léofred," replied the king and placed the letter back on the pile. "How do I look?"

The advisor eyed him critically. Éomer wore black breeches and a rusty red tunic embroidered with a motif of deer and oak leaves, a gift from Queen Arwen. He was tall, taller even than most of the Eorlingas, and he carried himself well. His face was, as usual, keen, open and sincere. Léofred nodded.

"Magnificent."

The two men descended the stairs and passed through the great hall. Éomer took his seat on the dais and peered around. He tried to see the room with the eyes of a stranger. There wasn't much in Edoras that could measure up to the grandeur of Gondor, but the Hall of Meduseld should pass for good enough even in the eyes of a Princess of Dol Amroth. Surely the pillars were splendid and the hangings rich? If only Déoric hadn't shown him the faults in the tapestries. He would have to hope that she wouldn't look at them too closely.

With a firm hand he smoothed down his tunic and rubbed his beard. He wasn't sure what to expect. There couldn't be anything wrong with this kind of arrangement, could there? It was how kings and princes had married since times untold; it was the way things were done. Having seen Éowyn and Faramir together though, he found that he desired a similar union of souls. And after all the death and destruction he had witnessed, he was craving something gentle and soft, the touch of someone unsullied by the stench of the war. But no high-born lady had yet crossed his path and caught his eye for more than a few fleeting moments. Princess Lothíriel, however, was the noblest woman alive in Middle-earth, save for the ladies of the Firstborn, and she had sent him letter after letter displaying such affability paired with good sense that he was inclined to believe there could be no fitter bride for him. Still, he could not help worrying that it might turn out to be a mistake. Sweet words on parchment could be designed to deceive. Now that she had come to Rohan, could he honourably reject her if he should find her less than amiable?

Movement and voices by the door told him that it was too late to consider such matters now. The guests had arrived. He saw the Prince of Dol Amroth making his way up the hall with the figure of a woman by his side, while their retinue was led to a side chamber by the servants.

He rose from his seat and stepped down from the dais to meet Imrahil and his daughter. She wore a blue travelling cloak and was not as tall as he had imagined her. Her head was cast down. As they approached the king, Imrahil quickened his pace and enfolded Éomer in a brotherly embrace. Then he stepped aside and took his daughter by the hand.

"Lothíriel, I want you to meet my good friend Éomer, the King of Rohan."

Éomer bowed. He took the lady's hand from her father's and raised it to his lips. It was soft and smooth and smelled of lily-of-the-valley.

"Welcome to Rohan, my Lady Lothíriel."

Slowly, she looked up at him. Her cheeks were high in colour, whether from the fresh air outside or from the anxiety of this meeting he could not tell. She wasn't beautiful in the way the minstrels sang, no skin like alabaster, no lips like rose petals. She was just a woman, young, well-groomed and seemingly nervous. But there was a sweetness and warmth about her that touched his soul the moment their eyes met. And then she smiled and that smile bore witness to all that her letters had promised. His heart leapt.

* * *

_Thanks go to my brother Axel for his expert advice on antique bookbinding._

* * *


	13. The betrothal

The Betrothal

Dirlayn had a rare moment of rest. Her house was tidy, her garden weeded, and in the kitchen a pot of stew was bubbling on the hearth. She leaned back in the chair and stretched out her legs. In a little while, Déoric would arrive. He had been out all day but he had promised to get her some yarn from the market before it closed and then come straight home. As usual, she felt slightly uneasy about his return. She never knew if he would be cheerful and chatty or silent and glum. One thing was for sure, though, the sight of him would make her both rejoice and ache, for as he was growing into full manhood, he looked more and more like Féadred had looked in the days of their courting.

Something came to her mind. She sighed and shook her head, then she walked across the room and opened the lid of the chest. There among her everyday possessions, her wool and her boxes and her sewing basket, lay tucked away in a corner a bundle wrapped in a dark green cloth. She knelt down and stroked it with the back of her hand, hesitated, and lifted it out. With gentle fingers she unwrapped it. A pair of boots came to light. They were rather worn and uncommonly large. Dirlayn lifted them up and hugged them to her chest. They were Féadred's boots.

Féadred. Féadred with his firm hands and easy laughter, with his clear voice and gentle eyes and his big, big feet. Féadred with his many stories, Féadred with the smell of horses that seemed ingrained into his skin. Féadred who had said farewell to her on a windy morning, never to return; who lay in a lonely grave she had never seen.

"Are you weeping, Mama? What is the matter?"

There was Déoric beside her. She hadn't heard him coming. He crouched down awkwardly in front of her, concern on his face.

"Oh, Déoric," she whispered. "You are so like your father."

He reached out and touched the boots, then he lifted his hand and wiped the tears off her face.

"I miss him, too," he said. "All the time. I would give my other leg to have him back."

Gently, she shook her head.

"Don't say such things, Déoric. Nothing will bring him back, so what good is there in wishing? And you miss your leg sorely enough, I dare say."

"I do, but not as much as I miss Father. Losing the leg was bad, but it could have been so much worse. It could have been my right hand. I've been lucky."

She clasped his hand. They sat for a while in silence, the boots on the floor between them. Dirlayn dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"I am glad you can think of it like that, Déoric. There have been times when I thought you would never have a cheerful thought again."

Déoric cast down his eyes.

"I am sorry, I really am. I have given you so much grief, Mama. You've had so much to worry about, and I must have made it worse with my foul moods. How can I ever make up for it?"

Dirlayn ran a finger along the rim of a boot. She looked across to the table and the three chairs.

"The day I have a grandchild sitting on my knee," she replied with a sudden smile, "I'll consider your penance fulfilled."

"But, Mother – "

"But me no buts, Déoric! You want to make amends, you know what to do. Come here!"

She embraced him tenderly and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders. How tall he was and how strong. Had he not come back, what would she have done? But here he was, her baby, her only child, no longer crying in the night but making his way in the world with the skill of his hand. That reminded her.

"Oh, I almost forgot. A letter arrived for you. It's on the table."

Déoric pulled himself up and seized the scroll.

"From Uncle? I hope he hasn't remembered something important about the binding that he previously forgot!"

He broke the seal on the ribbons and unrolled the parchment. His eyebrows rose in surprise. Dirlayn saw him scanning the letter and as he did so, a vague smile appeared on his face. When he came to the end, he laughed briefly.

"It's not from uncle at all. Listen to this."

He read:

_"Dear Déoric,_

_I am writing to you to make my apologies for not visiting you as I had half promised when I came past you in Edoras last summer. Our whole party was much taken up with the funeral of Théoden King and the festivities surrounding it, and besides I did not know where your house was. In all honesty, though, I must confess that I simply forgot, and for this I extend my sincere apologies to you, which I hope you will accept._

_There was much that needed seeing to when we returned, and the business of reclaiming our home, in more ways than one, tied our minds firmly to the present for some time. Thus I was only reminded of my oversight a few days ago, when I sat with my cousins and we talked about the people we had met on our travels. I had much to say of the people of Rohan, and so you came to my mind and I remembered what I had said when the cart rolled past you in the street._

_Our acquaintance, I know, was but short, and still you stand quite vividly in my mind. To see someone so young so grievously injured - and one of the proud riders of Rohan, too! - saddened me indeed. Would that you have found some consolation and that kind people have eased your pain both of the body and the mind. I hope that you will be spared the fate of one of my cousins, who was dreadfully wounded during the war and who, we now begin to fear, will never truly recover. But you are young and never had to carry his burden, so there seems a fair prospect that you will return to life and happiness._

_Éomer, your king, has urged me to visit the Mark again, and I will gladly grant his wish at such a time when it seems feasible to travel south again. So when I come to Edoras the next time, I shall be sure to seek you out and I hope to find you in good spirits. Until then I remain with the best of wishes,_

_Yours,_

_Meriadoc Brandybuck _

_PS: Strider, that is King Elessar, told us that the people of Rohan are not in the habit of writing letters, but I trust you will find somebody in your city, who will be able to read this to you."_

"Well, fancy that," said Dirlayn. "You are more accomplished than this Halfling gives you credit for, thanks to your Uncle Himlebed."

"Thanks to my uncle indeed," said Déoric. "None of my good fortune would have come about if it hadn't been for him."

He sat down. Dirlayn went to the kitchen and came back with bowls of stew.

"There is something I wish to tell you, Déoric," she said while she cut off thick slices of bread. "I spoke to Lithôniel this afternoon and she says they can still use more hands. I am going to train as a healer."

"You?"

"Yes, why not? It's not only young girls that are training. There's not much to do here, keeping the house for two, and selling the herbs was never something I meant to do in the long run. But, Déoric, just think if I should ever be able to do for someone's son what Merilwen did for you!"

Déoric chewed thoughtfully and then swallowed.

"Mama," he said, "I am proud of you."

oOoOo

When Déoric returned to his workplace after a week, he found the new book still lying on his desk. King Elessar's book was gone. His shoulders sagged and he slumped down on his chair. The crutches clattered to the floor. That the king had not claimed the book filled him with a hollow sense of disappointment, like a child who wakes at Yuletide and finds that it is raining and that Mother has forgotten to bake honey cakes. He pulled the tome towards him, meaning to look at it again to cheer his mind, but before he opened it he pushed it away. How could he find pleasure in it, if it was thus rejected by the king? Yet he soon had to pick up his spirits again, for Léofred appeared with a long list of tasks for him.

"Now that you've finished the book," the king's advisor said, "you have to tackle the backlog."

It turned out that the lull in ordinary scribing tasks had been nowhere near as great as Léofred had made out, but that he had held back from Déoric as many of these as was feasible to allow him to work on the book. Déoric, overwhelmed when he saw the extent of the older man's kindness, thanked him profusely, but Léofred made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"It was the least I could do, Déoric," he said. "Now make sure that you get going on these inventories."

So Déoric set to work and spent the morning with writing tasks that seemed tame and tedious but also strangely restful. He wondered if this was to be his lot from now on. Gléowine had advised him to finish the book and see what would come of it, but it seemed that nothing had come of it at all. He would spend his life scribing indifferent lists and accounts, grateful that he was able to earn a living, but nothing else. Well, he asked himself, what else had he been expecting?

When noontime came he took a break and looked out of the open window. A light drizzle fell, bringing out all the scents of the spring. Déoric inhaled. An unfamiliar noise drew his eyes upwards. Low in the sky a long, long line of great birds was flying. Geese, he thought, but the shape of their bodies, the stately, measured flaps of their wings and most of all the strange, warbling sounds indicated otherwise. They were mostly black, the crests of their heads and the tips of their wings flicked with white. He had never seen the likes before. Other people walking past looked up, too, shaded their eyes and murmured in bewilderment. An older woman dropped the bucket she was carrying and cried: "Cranes! The cranes are coming back!"

Déoric leaned out of the window as far as he could to see more. Cranes! He had only ever heard of them in stories, told with reverend whispers by the elders at the fireside. Creatures of grace and beauty, of wisdom and of good fortune, these birds endured no evil and had left the Riddermark when the shadow had lengthened in the East and the treachery of Saruman had poisoned the lands of the Eorlingas. Where they had gone and whence they had come from now was beyond Déoric to imagine, but here they were, trailing over Edoras, trilling out the promise of life in abundance. All too soon they were out of sight, disappearing towards the White Mountains to settle, perhaps, in the plains of Gondor. Déoric returned to his desk.

Late in the afternoon Léofred came and summoned Déoric to the great hall.

"The king wants to see you. Take the book with you."

In the hall servants were setting up tables as for a feast, but at the top of the room it was quiet. Two figures sat on the dais with Éomer King, talking softly. Déoric's eye was first drawn to the man, who was tall and of dignified bearing. He remembered having seen him in Théoden's funeral procession, a prince of an ancient and noble line. Between this regal man and the king sat a woman, not much older than Déoric. She had the dark hair and fair skin of the Gondorians and her deep-set eyes were grey like the sky at dawn. Her rich garments of dark green silk edged with golden ribbons left no doubt that she was a lady of the highest rank. She graced him with a smile so amiable that he felt himself blush.

The king nodded at Déoric and addressed his visitors: "My scribe, Déoric, has been very diligent over the winter and produced a fine piece of work that I would like to show to you. Déoric, give the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Princess Lothíriel the book."

Déoric hesitated in confusion, aware that is was not possible to hand the book to two people at once. Since the king did nothing to solve this predicament, he took heart and gave the book to the lady, who received it with slender white fingers.

"I know you have finer tomes in Gondor, but I beg you to consider that this is the first book ever written in the Riddermark," Déoric said, hoping that the force of his heartbeat wasn't too visible at his neck.

Princess Lothíriel smiled again and carefully opened the book. She pondered long on the frontispiece and then turned page after page, stopping whenever she came upon one of the drawings. Her father craned his neck to see.

"It is delightful," she said at last. "I am sure both my father and King Elessar would be glad to have such a book in their libraries. Is that not so, father?"

"It is as fine a book as ever I saw," replied the Prince.

Éomer was evidently pleased, for he smiled broadly.

"In that case I hope you will also think it fit for a lady and accept it as my gift."

Déoric struggled to prevent himself from crying out. He had made the book for Rohan, how could the king give it away to a Gondorian princess? All that work, just for the book to be carried away down south and be placed among other tomes of greater dignity! He felt like bursting into tears, but he thought of Léofred's reproach. Whatever was thrown at him, he would take it like a man.

The princess looked from the book to the scribe and then to the king.

"It is a handsome gift indeed, "she said softly, "and I thank you, my lord king. I accept it with pleasure. But it seems to me that it is bound to the spirit of this land, and therefore I would like it to dwell here and wait for my return. When I come to make my home in Rohan, I shall bring my own books to keep it company, but it shall always have a place of honour as the first book in the library of Meduseld."

This speech confused Déoric as much as it relieved him, and it was only when he saw the king kissing the lady's hand with reverence and recognized the smile and the look these two were exchanging that he understood. Before he could betray his surprise, the lady fixed her grey eyes on him again.

"You write a very fair hand, Déoric. Your king should take lessons from you, for his writing is careless and hard to decipher. Not that his letters haven't given me a great deal of pleasure, but they have also caused me some headaches." She beamed at the king and Déoric could hardly believe his eyes when he saw Éomer blushing.

"Déoric was not trained in the craft of the scribe," said the king quickly and rose, "and even less in the secrets of the artist. Everything he has accomplished is entirely the work of his own effort and genius."

"Oh, no," protested Déoric. "Master Gléowine taught me his stories and my uncle helped me with the inks, and Guntram did the binding and without your – "

"And he is modest, too," interrupted the king and put a hand on Déoric's shoulder. "It is men like these that Rohan is proud of. Déoric, this shall not be the last book by your hand. You shall collect all the tales of our land you can find. Go about the city and speak to the people, and then go out into the countryside and do the same there. If I am not mistaken you will already know a fair number of stories from your father. Make us a book of tales and adorn it with your drawings. And you shall record all events of importance that happen in our days from now on in words and in pictures. Henceforth you shall be known as Déoric, the Chronicler of the Mark."

Half a minute passed in silence. Prince Imrahil shifted in his seat. Princess Lothíriel glanced at the king.

"Did you hear me, Déoric?" asked Éomer.

"Yes, my lord," replied Déoric in a whisper. "I… forgive me, I do not know what to say. I am … honoured beyond measure and I thank you ... most ardently – "

"Yes, yes, I can imagine," interrupted the king. "Now, Déoric, we are starting a fresh page in the history of the Mark today, for we celebrate my betrothal to this most amiable of ladies. There will be merrymaking in the streets of Edoras tonight, and I am sure you will want to join your friends later, but for the first part of the evening I wish that you shall share the table with us. You have an hour to go home and dress yourself for a feast. And tomorrow my lady and I shall sit for you and you shall draw a fitting picture to mark our betrothal."

Déoric bowed his head.

"I was delighted with your first drawing of the king," said Princess Lothíriel in her soft lilting voice. "It gave me a good idea of his handsome features, though you forgot to show the twinkle in his eyes. I hope you will catch it this time."

If he hadn't been lost for words already, he would have been speechless then.

oOoOo

Later, when he sat at the table in the great hall just a few yards away from Éomer and his lady, in his best tunic and with neat hair that Dirlayn had braided in a great flutter, he was too nervous to look up from his plate, let alone to take part in the conversation. He shared the table with the king! If only his father could have seen him. He glanced to the left and right at those who sat at the king's table with the ease of the high-born and he wondered what strange fate had thus elevated him beyond all merit and expectation.

Well, not beyond all merit, maybe. The book was indeed a thing to be proud of, and he had made it so with the skill of his eyes and hands. It was true that none other in the Mark would have been able to accomplish this. That it would earn him such honour, though, he would never have thought. Master Gléowine had been right.

When the banquet was over, the noble guests stood aside in quiet conversation while the servants cleared the room for the dancing. Anxious not to outstay his welcome, Déoric took his leave from the king. Éomer smiled broadly. He held the Princess Lothíriel's hand and looked radiant and formidable.

"I thank you for your company tonight, Déoric. Make sure to be here in the morning with your sketching board. Good night to you, Chronicler of the Mark!"

"Good night, Déoric," added the princess. "Until tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing you draw."

A warm glow filled Déoric when he came outside to join the merrymaking. Chronicler of the Mark! _It is men like these that Rohan is proud of._ He could barely believe that the king had said such a thing about him. Who would have thought a year ago that he would rise to such distinction? Master Gléowine was going to be ever so pleased. And the princess, too, had approved. How lovely she was! No wonder the king was beaming with joy.

It was beginning to grow dark and torches and bonfires had been lit in the streets. Here and there in the trees lanterns twinkled to match the early stars in the sky. Every soul in Edoras seemed to be out tonight. Makeshift benches and trestle tables had been set up in every available flat space, an oxen was turned on a spit over a fire and near the steps to the hall a group of musicians were tuning their instruments. Déoric found a space on a bench and sat down. He couldn't see Dirlayn in the crowd, but he figured if he but stayed in one place she would come past eventually.

"Hullo, Déoric!" said a cheerful voice. He looked round. It was the child Fryn. He had met her from time to time after that first encounter in the meadows, and always spoken a few words with her. She had usually been quiet and solemn and he was surprised to hear her sound so joyful today.

"Just think, Déoric, my father has come home after all this time!"

"Has he? How is that possible?"

"He'd been hit on the head and he'd passed out and they kept him in that big infirmary in Mundburg and he just slept lots for weeks and weeks and weeks and when he stopped sleeping so much he didn't know who he was and he was just like a newborn babe, but one day, he said, he just knew he had to go home to his little girl and so he did."

She drew breath at last. Déoric put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm so glad to hear that," he said. She smiled, with a happiness that almost pained him.

"I must go back to him," she said.

"Well, on you go then."

But she hesitated and shuffled her feet.

"Déoric? Can I still keep that picture you gave me?"

"Of course you can!"

"Thank you!"

She skipped away. His gaze followed her as she disappeared in the throng. The musicians had begun to play a spirited tune and already the first couples were whirling around in a lively dance. He rubbed his forehead. Then he saw Fana standing in front of him. She wore a green dress and the braids of her hair were shaped into a crown on her head, wound with a wreath of simbelmynë. Her face lay half in shadow, with the shine of the fires on her other cheek, but he could see that she smiled.

"Dance with me," she said.

He frowned. The warm glow ebbed away. "Don't mock me."

"I am not mocking you. Come and dance with me."

"Why would you want to dance with a one-legged man? If you're not mocking me, then you feel sorry for me. I don't want your pity."

The smile faded from Fana's face. She sat down beside him and took his hand into hers. He flinched at her touch, but he bore it. It was so long since he had touched her, he had almost forgotten what gentle hands she had.

"Look at me."

He glanced at her briefly, but then looked away, down on the ground, down to the single foot beside her two pretty slippers. That scent of camomile. The softness of her fingers.

"Déoric, dearest, why will you not look at me? I haven't come to dance with a one-legged man, I have come to dance with _you_. I do not care how many legs you have, can't you understand that?"

Déoric drew breath sharply. He bit into the knuckle of his free hand. Then he seized one of his braids and twisted it between his fingers. All the while he felt her hand firm and warm in his. "Will you not want to be dancing with Niarl?"

"With Niarl?" She turned her head and, following her glance, Déoric spied his friend on a bench with a tankard in his hand, talking to a group of young men. Niarl made a gesture with his hand and the others burst out laughing. Fana shook her head. "Why would I want to dance with him rather than with my own dear Déoric? Besides, I'm sure he's going to dance with Aedre in a minute." She nodded her head in the direction of a young woman who had just appeared. The other young men made space for her on the bench and she sat down next to Niarl, who laughed and put his arm around her. Déoric recognized her as one of Lithôniel's apprentices.

Fana stroked the back of Déoric's hand with her finger.

"You _are_ my own dear Déoric, aren't you?" she asked in a quiet voice. Déoric held his breath. The music, the voices, the fire-lit night, everything blurred into a distant background and he felt as if the whole world consisted of nothing but his hand in Fana's.

"If you will have me," he whispered. He stared at her finger that traced the veins on the back of his hand and lingered on the ink stains on his fingertips. "But Niarl … I thought ...Aren't you ..." He floundered for words. "I saw you walking together. He carried your milk pails on his horse. He touched your face."

Fana gave a sigh and a soft chuckle.

"Oh, Déoric! Is that what it was all about? You should have said something. What have you been thinking? Can a woman not walk and talk with a friend without people thinking the wrong thing? Hasn't Niarl been my friend for as long as I can remember? Had you heard us talking that day you would have known that it was you we were speaking of. I lamented that you had abandoned me, and Niarl wiped a tear from my face that I had cried about _you_. And believe me, that wasn't the only one. You've made me shed many a tear during this last year. Whatever made you think I would stop loving you? Look at me, Déoric, son of Féadred!"

So at last he looked at her, and though the night was lit only by the fires and torches of the feast, he saw in her eyes a great tenderness, a glow so warm and bright that he knew it would light up his life for all the days to come. And with a sudden pang of understanding he knew that it had been there all the time and that it had been only his own fear and anguish that had stopped him from seeing it. He pressed her hand.

"I won't be able to climb mountains with you anymore, Fana."

"Does it matter? Tell me stories instead. I've heard you were good at that."

"What will your father say?" he whispered.

"My father will give you a clout round the ears for having made me so miserable," she said, "and that'll only serve you right!" And there it was, that mischievous smile of hers that he had missed so much. He reached out with his free hand and gently caressed her cheek.

"Oh, Fana, I've been such a fool! Do you think you can ever forgive me? I should have known you better."

"Yes, you should have," said she and leaned her cheek against his hand.

"I know, I know. I don't understand what made me so blind. Somehow it was so important to feel sorry for myself. How foolish of me. I am so sorry I made you cry. Dearest." He stroked her cheek with his thumb, revelling in the smoothness of her skin. "Dearest, sweetest Fana. Let me try to make you smile now. I will dance with you, Fana, but I will need both my hands."

He took his crutches and rose and they made their way over to the dancers. Slowly, awkwardly, he joined into the movements, while Fana skipped about him, light on her feet, her eyes shining. It was more than he could comprehend. He had been a fool beyond measure, he had disowned her and abandoned her and caused her at least as much grief as he had caused himself, and yet she had never stopped loving him. She was his own dear Fana, always had been, always would be, and that was that. And then, as if a chain that had bound him had suddenly been broken, he began to laugh. Quietly at first, but by and by his voice began to rise and he threw back his head and roared into the night, so that the other dancers stopped and looked at him, while he hopped about on his crutches and laughed and laughed and laughed, Déoric, son of Féadred, who had come home at last.


	14. A summer's day in Ithilien

A summer's day in Ithilien

Restored to light and beauty, the land of Ithilien basked in the summer sun. The mountains to the East hid an empty wasteland, but no longer a shadowy terror. Dark they were still and forbidding, yet Ithilien looked ever westwards, over fields and forests down to that placid snake of a river and beyond to the great city at the foot of the White Mountains. All the houses had their windows to the West, the wooden cabins as well as that single fair mansion of light grey stone.

In the morning Éowyn had sent for Merilwen the Healer, half suspecting that she wasn't ill at all and that all this fatigue and discomfort had a much more pleasant cause. When the older woman had arrived at noon time, she had examined Éowyn with care and circumspection and had confirmed the lady's belief. Éowyn, in her delight, had invited the healer to stay for a while and take refreshments with her, and now the two women were seated near the window with their cups of spiced milk. Even as they spoke with each other, their eyes were drawn by the lure of the summery landscape. Seagulls had come up the river and sailed lazily over the lush meadows, their forlorn cries speaking of the ocean which could every so often be smelled in this land, but never seen.

"Are you happy in Ithilien?" asked Éowyn.

"Oh yes, I am," said the healer. "Lord Faramir is wise and kind in all he does. And there is such openness and cordiality among the people here that I always feel I am with friends."

"I hear you have no family." Éowyn dunked a ginger biscuit into her cup and, encouraged by her example, Merilwen did the same.

"No, I haven't, that is true. Though there is one for whom I feel almost like a mother, or at least how I imagine a mother would feel. He is one of your countrymen, in fact, I believe you might know him. His name is Déoric."

"Déoric? Oh yes, the scribe. I remember him. He spoke highly of you. He seemed very sad when I last saw him, and I gave my brother a little hint as to what could be done for him. I wonder how he fares now."

"Much better than one might have expected, Lady Éowyn. I had a letter from him, it arrived but last week."

"Would you care to tell me what he writes?"

"I can read you the whole letter if you wish," said Merilwen, "for I carry it with me."

"Let us hear it then," said Éowyn.

Merilwen pulled a scroll out of her pouch and opened the ribbon that held it together. In her slow, soft voice she began to read:

_Dear Merilwen,_

_You might be interested to know that a new infirmary has been built in Edoras. The king ordered it, but he claims it was because of something I said! We have one of your friends here, Lithôniel, to teach the art of healing, and my own mother is among those who are training to be healers. Lithôniel has told me that you live in Ithilien now, where the Lady Éowyn also dwells, and I am glad about that, because if she should ever get ill, you'll be there to look after her._

_Perhaps you remember saying to me one night, when I told you I wanted to die, that the world was not just made of warriors. That in times of peace, such as we were hoping for, there would be as much honour in playing the fiddle or wielding the hoe as in brandishing the sword. It won't surprise you, if I tell you now that I didn't believe you then._

_However, it might gladden you to know that I have come to see the wisdom of your words. Not that I don't miss my leg any more - there isn't a day when I don't wish I still had it, and the sad truth remains that I shall never ride out with the Eorlingas like my father did. But I believe now that it is better to live without it than to be buried with it. My life, vastly different though it is from what I ever expected it to be, suits me and pleases me, and when I tell you about it, you will see how true your words have become indeed._

_Not long after the return of Éomer King I was made a scribe at his court by his advisor, Léofred, a man whose kindness and decency I cannot praise enough. I must have been doing my work well, since before long the king asked me to copy a precious book he had brought from Gondor about the history of our lands. I set out to make nothing but a faithful copy, but by and by I gained permission to include such songs and tales as are known among my people and added pictures by my own hand. I found, in fact, that I have the making of an artist, and I put my hand to good use in drawing heroes and horses in a fashion both shapely and true to nature. The king was pleased with my endeavour and gave me the title Chronicler of the Mark. I have now as honoured a place in Edoras as I could ever have hoped to gain with the deeds of my sword. And though I have been right foolish about some things and have upset the people I love best, they have all insisted on forgiving me and continue to love me in spite of my best efforts. It was an old man who made me see my folly, and I am not ashamed to admit that without his shrewdness I might still be not much happier than I was a year ago. But fortunately he took it upon himself to show me my foolishness and he, like you, has become one upon whom I look as a saviour._

_The king says I will need to learn to ride again. He wants me to go out into the Riddermark to record the stories and draw the people, and he says it is not becoming for the Chronicler of the Mark to be driven about in a cart. So he is having a special saddle made that is supposed to keep me mounted. I find it hard to believe that it will be possible, but we shall see when it comes to the test. I believe there has never been a rider in the Mark with quite so much of his leg missing, but then I think I am the first of the Eorlingas ever to have survived such an injury. The world is changing, as my friend Gléowine the minstrel keeps reminding me, and many things we firmly believed may turn out to be no longer true._

_We feel very much how the world has already been changed by the advent of peace. The roads are free and safe to pass, I have been told, and if ever you should feel a wish to travel, I urge you to make your way to the Riddermark and visit us in Edoras. I would dearly like to see you again, and my mother would be keen to meet you. Soon there will be a third living in our house, for the best girl in the world has agreed to marry me and we shall be wed on Midsummer's Eve. But we'll all be happy to squash together to make room for you, and I promise to show you the Golden Hall and all the best horses in Rohan, for I am now in the king's favour and can afford such audacity. _

_Both my mother and Fana, my betrothed, bid me to send you their heartfelt greetings and thanks for all the kindness I received from you and without which I would not be sitting here writing this letter. As for myself, I will forever think of you with gratitude and, far away as you might be, count you among my friends. May all your days be filled with joy._

_Déoric, son of Féadred, Chronicler of the Mark_

_PS: I have included a picture of Fana, so you can see what a sweet girl she is. I managed to get her smile just right._

"Well, Merilwen," said Éowyn while she looked at the drawing on the parchment that Merilwen had handed her, "it seems you do have a family after all. And when the time comes that I shall visit my homeland once again, you shall come with me and see Déoric and his Fana and that wondrous book he has made. What say you?"

"I can only say," replied Merilwen, "that the Lady Éowyn is as generous and kind as she is beautiful."

At this, Éowyn laughed.

"You know," she said, "I have won renown through deeds of bravery in battle, and that was as I wished it to be. But now, in this peaceful summer, I believe I might try to make myself a name with deeds of kindness."

oOoOo

Later that day when Faramir came home from the business of the day, he sat with Éowyn on the balcony overlooking the garden. This garden was yet young, for it had only been planted the previous summer, but some jasmine bushes stood there which had already been on the site, and the bees were buzzing about the flowers that had grown from the bulbs Queen Arwen had given to Éowyn. A gentle breeze carried up the scent of wild roses from further down the hill. Faramir told his wife what he had accomplished that day in riding from village to village with the marshal of his guard, and Éowyn smiled and laughed and talked much more than was her usual wont. She couldn't keep to her seat, either, but walked, almost skipped about, breathing deeply the summer air and every now and then beaming at her husband. Faramir couldn't help but notice it.

"You seem uncommonly cheerful today, Éowyn," he remarked. "Is there a particular reason for this?"

Éowyn laughed again. She leapt up and sat on the parapet with her feet dangling.

"I heard something today that gave me great pleasure."

"Will you care to share with me what it was?"

She smiled and turned her head to look at a blue butterfly that had fluttered into their garden.

"Do you remember when we were in the Houses of Healing that there was a very young man, whose leg had been severed by an Easterling's axe? Déoric was his name."

"Oh, yes. I saw him again in the streets of Edoras when we arrived there. I was grieved for him. To be thus crippled at so young an age must be deeply distressing."

"I felt for him, too, as did many others who were in the Houses of Healing at that time. But I've heard glad tidings about him. Merilwen the Healer has received a letter from him."

Then she told him all that she had learned from that letter. "And so," she ended her tale, "he is now wed to the very same girl who climbed into that dreadful well to retrieve my necklace. And I am the more pleased, because it was I who suggested to Éomer that Déoric should be asked to copy that book. It has been the making of him, as you can see."

Faramir leaned his chin on his hand and looked at his wife quizzically.

"I am pleased to hear this, Éowyn, but I must confess that I am amazed this message has given you such a glow. I did not know that you cared so deeply about this young man. Somehow I cannot help thinking it's not enough to account for the exceedingly high spirits in which I find you. Is there something else, another surprise like your brother's sudden betrothal to my cousin?"

"That was hardly sudden," said Éowyn, "I told you they had been writing to each other all through the autumn and winter. My brother can write very charmingly, when he puts his mind to it, and I am sure he is more capable than most men to woo a woman by letter. But you are right, there is another thing. You haven't asked me how I came to speak to Merilwen."

She walked over to where he was sitting and whispered something in his ear and then Faramir's spirits rose even higher than her own.

oOoOo

Back in her wooden cabin, Merilwen swept the floor and thought about the day. She had been pleased about the news that she had given to Lady Éowyn, and just as pleased about the interest that noble woman had showed in the fate of Déoric. The world was healing indeed. There was nothing better she could wish for.

That reminded her of something. From a chest in the corner of the room she took a dark green cloth embroidered with tiny white flowers and looked at them with her calm grey eyes. She knew their name now and their story, for the Lady Éowyn had told her: Simbelmynë, evermind. For an instant, Merilwen wondered why Déoric's mother would have chosen to embellish the cloth with the images of a flower growing on graves. Then she understood it and she smiled. She folded up the cloth and stowed it in the chest, where it would wait until such a time when she would have need for it again in the colder seasons.

Outside, she sat down on the bench by her front door and looked at her garden. When she had first made it, she had set out neat rows in neat square beds with neat paths between them. But the abundance of the land had taken over. Now the wild yellow poppies mingled with the carrots, and harebells with her healing herbs. Sage and coriander scented the air. In the far corner the fruit on the olive tree were beginning to ripen.

A miniscule movement drew her eyes towards the rough low wall she had erected around her garden. There on one of the stones a tiny creature was basking in the summer sunshine. It was a lizard, barely longer than a man's hand. When she looked closer, she saw that it appeared to have shed its tail at some point in the past, for it had grown back somewhat short and a different colour from the rest of its skin. Sunlight glinted on the glossy scales that formed the speckled patterns of the tiny body. The creature peered at her with jet-black eyes.

"Quite so," said Merilwen.

The End

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_I would like to thank all the people who have followed this tale, especially those who have been kind enough to review, but also the steady number of silent readers – the hit count on this story was as encouraging to watch as the reviews! Thanks in particular to all the reviewers who pointed out flaws in the text, it was great to have people with whom to discuss those issues. Even though I didn't take all suggestions on board, I did make a fair amount of amendments and I believe I ended up with a better story thanks to your contributions._

_If you enjoyed this story and would like to know more about D eoric, there is a sequel alled "Truth be Told."_

_A couple of people have indicated that they might have missed aspects of the story, have asked what this or that meant, or where otherwise unsure about things. If you'd like to have some detailed explanations, let me know and I'll send them to you._


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